ogging and weighing
were done. In a close bunch stood the shrinking, cowering convicts, some
with heads white as the cotton all about them. Mr. Buck, the most
picturesque figure of the whole, was laying off his coat and baring his
arm, standing under the solitary lamp depending from the rafters, whose
faint light served to give to all the scene an indefinite supernatural
aspect.

"Now, come out yere," said Mr. Buck, moving from under the grease-lamp and
calling for volunteers.

One by one the negroes came forward and bared themselves to the
waist--children, strong men and old women. And then there was shrieking and
wailing, begging and praying: it was like a leaf out of hell.

Little Lizay was among the first of the condemned to present herself, for
she felt an intolerable suspense as to what awaited her. The vague terror
in her face was discerned by the dim light.

As she stepped forward Mr. Buck called out, "Als'on!"

"Yes, moster," Alston answered.

"What yer sneakin' in that thar' corner fer? Come up yere, you--" but his
vile sentence shall not be finished here.

Alston came forward with a statuesque face.

"Take this rawhide," was the order he received.

He put out his hand, and then, suddenly realizing the requisition that was
to be made on him, realizing that he was to flog Little Lizay, his
confidante and sympathizing friend, his hand dropped cold and limp.

"Yerdar' ter dis'bey me?" Mr. Buck bellowed. "I'll brain yer: I'll--"

"I didn't go ter do it, moster," Alston said, reaching for the whip. "I'll
whip her tell yer tells me ter stop."

"He didn't go ter do it, Mos' Buck," pleaded Little Lizay, frightened for
Alston. "He'll whip me ef yer'll give 'im the whip.--I's ready, Als'on."

She crossed her arms over her bare bosom and shook her long hair forward:
then dropped her face low and stood with her back partly turned to Alston,
who now had the whip.

"Fire away!" said the overseer.

Alston was not a refined gentleman, whose youth had been hedged from the
coarse and degrading, whose good instincts had been cherished, whose
faculties had been harmoniously trained. He was not a hero: he was not
prepared to espouse to the death Little Lizay's cause--to risk everything
for the shrinking, helpless woman and for his own manhood--to die rather
than strike her. He was only a slave, used from his cradle to the low and
cruel and brutalizing. But he had the making of a man in him: his nature
was one tha