od,
he added: "He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause." He went on from
this with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, with
a plaintiveness that seemed to Frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasons
why the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast his
life, would never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced to the
meanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement was
this: that that people was not a people. Their cause--was in Africa.
They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here the
struggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war.

"You speak of them in the third person," said Frowenfeld.

"Ah ham nod a slev."

"Are you certain of that?" asked the tenant.

His landlord looked at him.

"It seems to me," said Frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the free
quadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. Your men, for a little
property, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselves
be shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham
freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattens
them into the dirt like grass under a slab. I would rather be a runaway
in the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. As your class
stands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--you
are--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning to
philanthropists!"

The free man of color slowly arose.

"I trust you know," said Frowenfeld, "that I say nothing in offence."

"Havery word is tru'," replied the sad man.

"Mr. Grandissime," said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again
into his seat, "I know you are a broken-hearted man."

The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up.

"And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of
patient and sustained self-sacrifice. You have only those things to lose
which grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. Give
yourself to your people--to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan,
under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common."

The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered:

"Ah cannod be one Toussaint l'Ouverture. Ah cannod trah to be. Hiv I
trah, I h-only s'all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupe."

"You entirely misunderstand me," said Frowenfeld in quick response. "I
have no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. I believe