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Presently he came up to us, and the young youth said before he could speak: "N'ai-je pas de la veine, mon cher, Mlle. de Croixmare m'a promis le cotillon."

When he saw the deep, angry spirit of protest he threw up his hands, crying, "Wat de use? I warn you; I 'treat you, be keerful. Wat could us do wid our bar han's agin armed men? I tells you we mus' wait or die lak Moses 'fo' we enter de promis lan'." Then he told them about Yarry and asked for two or three to volunteer to dig the grave.

You mus promis you will not loose him. Haf you a knife?" "No," said Mrs. Willoughby, in a scarce audible tone. "Do not mourn. You sall be able to talk to de prisonaire and get consolazion. But come." With these words Girasole led the way out into the hall, and into the front-room on the opposite side. He carried the lamp in his hand. Mrs.

Let us all gib our 'tention ter 'Im who's brung 'liverance ter Israel at las'. We gwine troo de Red Sea ob wah now en des whar de promis' lan' is we got ter fin' out, but we hab tu'ned our backs on ole Egypt en we ain' gwine back no mo'. Brudren en sistas, you'se yeard a Gospil, a good news, dis eb'nin' sho. You'se yeard you free, bress de Lawd!

Den I knows it is de fulfillment ob dat promis; 'I would soon be undah my own vine an' fig tree' and hab no feah of bein' sold down de riber to a mean Marse. I recalls der wuz Thorton Powell, Ben Sales and Charley Releford among de preachahs.

No won'er you'se bofe off de handle. Dere's been only two times wen I couldn't stan' Unc. nohow. De fust an' wust was wen he get polytics on de brain, an' belebed dat ole guv'ner Moses was gwine ter lead de culud people to a promis' lan'. I alus tole him dat his Moses 'ud lead him into a ditch, an' so he did. De secon' time was wen he got sot on, but you knows all 'bout dat.

The hymn, too, is no longer selected from the prayer-book, but from some unwritten collection better adapted to their ideas of "heart-religion": De angel cry out A-men, A-men! A-men! De angel cry out A-men! I'se bound to de promis' lan'! I da gwine up to hebbin in a long w'ite robe, Long w'ite robe! long w'ite robe! My Sabiour tell me wear dat robe W'en I meet him in de promis' lan'!

The populace drew back, but bellowed and sang into the ears of the queen as she passed by: "Madame Veto avait promis D'fegorger tout Paris." These horrible faces, these threatening, abusive voices, frightened the dauphin, who clung tremblingly to his mother. Marie Antoinette stooped down to him and whispered a few words in his ear.

"Yes, sir," he answered, saluting me as he had done the lieutenant on his entrance. "Two-and-twenty years, sir." "You don't mind my talking to the fellow?" I asked the lieutenant, reverting to French again. "Pas du tout," said the lieutenant. "Vous le trouverez bien bête, je vous promis." "How long have you been in the Austrian service?" "Not in the service at all, sir. General's groom, sir."

A number of ragged negroes came down to the bank in high glee at the arrival, and making sundry inquiries about corn and bacon. One old patriarchal subject cried out to the pilot, "Ah, Cesar, I 'now'd ye wah cumin'. Massa, an' young Massa Aleck, bin promis' bacon mor' den week, gess he cum' now."