I could have groaned aloud had I been
alone. But I was not. I sat in the great refectory of the hotel. Men
were near who would have jeered at my agony had they but known its
cause.

Some minutes elapsed before I could reflect on what I had read. I sat
in a kind of stupor, brought on by the violence of my emotions.

Reflection came at length, and my first thought was of action. More
than ever did I now desire to become the purchaser of the beautiful
slave--to redeem her from this hideous bondage. I should buy her. I
should set her free. True or false to me, I should accomplish this all
the same. I should make no claim for gratitude. She should choose for
herself. She should be free, if not in the disposal of her gratitude,
at least in that of her love. A love based only on gratitude would not
content me. Such could not last. Her heart should freely bestow
itself. If I had already won it, well. If not, and it had fixed its
affection upon another--mine be the grief. Aurore, at all events, shall
be happy.

My love had elevated my soul--had filled it with such noble resolves.

And now to set her free.

When was this hideous exhibition--this "Important Sale," to come off?
When was my betrothed to be sold, and I to assist at the spectacle?

I took up the paper again to ascertain the time and place. The place I
knew well--the Rotundo of the Saint Louis exchange--adjoining the hotel,
and within twenty yards of where I sat. That was the slave-market. But
the time--it was of more importance--indeed of all importance. Strange
I did not think of this before! Should it be at an early date, and my
letter not have arrived! I dared not trust myself with such a
supposition. Surely it would be a week--several days, at the least--
before a sale of so much importance would take place. Ha! it may have
been advertised for some days. The negroes may have been brought down
only at the last moment!

My hands trembled, as my eyes sought the paragraph. At length they
rested upon it. I read with painful surprise:--

"_To-morrow at twelve_!"

I looked to the date of the journal. All correct. It was the issue of
that morning. I looked to the dial on the wall. The clock was on the
stroke of _twelve_! Just one day to elapse.

"O God! if my letter should not have arrived!"

I drew forth my purse, and mechanically told over its contents. I knew
not why I did so. I knew it contained but a hundred dollars.