The Adventures of Miss Gregory: The Adventure with the Slave Dealer

"We can't understand much of what she says," he replied; "but her game's pretty plain: she's bolted."

Miss Gregory stared at him, understanding nothing. "Bolted--from where?" she asked.

At the sound of her voice, the forlorn creature on the ground looked up. Her face-- the pathetic mask of the negro, framed to be void and foolish--was alight with a sort of passion, hope, and servility joined together. She looked from the silent circle of staring black men to the one other woman.

Silly Smith waved an uncertain hand to the large east.

"She's run from somewhere over there," he said. "Got away in the night, you know. She doesn't seem to have been chained or anything."

Miss Gregory's lips parted. "A slave?" she asked, scarcely above a whisper.

"Well"--Smith seemed to shy at the plain word. "You can call it that, you know. There's probably a train of 'em being marched northeast, and we don't want trouble with 'em. Now, do we?"

"Trouble?" rep