"Poor little girl. Poor little Mildred. Why has she done all this? And she is alone somewhere--always alone--and I know not where."

There came a day when he felt he could stand it no longer.

He took a walk; he knew not where it led to. Possibly it led nowhere.

Yet he felt he must walk, not in the direction he was accustomed to go (to the river, where he had wandered many a night, and observed the mighty ocean liners, receiving and discharging their cargoes; or where, on the deck of packets, he listened to steam calliopes), but in a direction he had never gone before.

It was in one of the creole city's narrow ways, where he presently found himself. Sidney strolled along, oblivious to all whereabouts, and found that this part of the city was much unlike any part he had known.

He felt as one in a strange land, to be sure. On all sides he was greeted by little low houses, opening into the narrow streets. Peculiar people moved about and spoke in a tongue he could not understand, but he knew it was creole. They were quieter than those in the neighborhood he lived, and he understood. They were all Catholics, he had been told, and "obeyed" the priest. He was glad of it. He wished all his race would obey something other than their animal instincts.

He paused at last before a statue in a small square. Four rows of buildings faced it on that many sides. Only one side confronted him, however, and to this he finally went. He stopped before a large church, a cathedral, and read that it had been built almost two hundred years before. Next to the church, was the museum. Curious, and for a time forgetting his troubles, he wandered in. He went up a winding stairway to the second floor. As he pa.s.sed upward, great oil paintings greeted him. All old, this he saw; for, under many were inscriptions, showing that many had been painted more than a hundred years ago. While he had never studied this art, he readily appreciated that many were wonderful.

Elegant ladies gazed at him from the frames, their eyes following him strangely out of sight; for, no matter where he stood, whether in front or from either side, they seemed to scrutinize him.

He pa.s.sed into the museum and began to examine, through the gla.s.s cases, relics of another day. That the city was old was shown by the age of papers and doc.u.ments of numerous mention. Pictures of fond old mammies, gray and white-haired old uncles, grand dames (such as Dixie had seen), caught his attention everywhere.

An old, old man, scion of a decayed aristocracy, sat in a chair within this art room, and Sidney approached him. "Have you," said he, "any record of the sale of slaves, in this museum?" The other pointed to a room Wyeth had not observed, but spoke no word.

Wyeth wandered into it, and his gaze immediately encountered what he was curious to see.

"Know all men by these presents:

"Being the last will and testament of Joan Becuare.

"To my wife and life companion, I do bequeath to thee, all I have after death. To-wit:

"One thousand acres of land in Caddo Parish, unenc.u.mbered.

"One hundred n.i.g.g.e.rs, of various ages and the following description:

"One mammy, age eighty. A better wench never lived. Name: Diana.

"One 'uncle', eighty-seven, beloved servant of his master, and faithful ever. Name: Joe.

"One wench, twenty-two, robust, healthy, a good servant of the house.

Name: Martha."

And so on the description ran, which seemed strange and unnecessary in a will; then he recalled the sentiment of the southerner.

In still another case, he read a sale bill, written in long hand with an artistic flourish:

"Having sold my plantation, I will hereby sell to the highest bidder, at public auction, the following named property, to-wit:

"One n.i.g.g.e.r wench, sixteen years, hail and hearty, promises to be a good breeder, and is now with child by Ditto, a young n.i.g.g.e.r, strong as a lion, healthy and a good worker. Not 'sa.s.sy'.

"One n.i.g.g.e.r wench, twenty-three, name, Mandy. This is the most attractive wench in Gretna Parish. She is expecting a third child soon."

Wyeth wondered why the father was not mentioned. And then he thought of something, and knew.... His own father was the son of a master.

He read other such doc.u.ments, and then observed that almost all sales were recorded to be held at the "slave" market. After an hour or more, he pa.s.sed out.

He went up a street, which was narrow--like all those in the old section of the city, and walked on, whither he had no idea. Not far away, he could see the river and many great vessels moving up and down.

Just ahead of him, appeared an odd, long, two-story building. The first glance revealed that, once upon a time, it had been a grand affair.

"Wonder what it was?" he muttered idly.

And now he came up to it, and paused near one end. He viewed it many minutes curiously from across the street, but he could not make out what it had been. As he saw it now, it was evident that it had been empty for many, many years.

Presently, he crossed to where a door greeted him, only to find, when he had come to it, that it was bolted from the inside, while the heavy iron k.n.o.b was rusted until it was hardly recognizable. He glanced up, and, straining his eyes, he read an inscription over the door:

ST. LOUIS--ROYAL HOTEL

SLAVE MARKET

"So this is the place," he whispered, observing everything before him now with a new interest. "Herein were sold, in the days of old, hundreds--aye, thousands of _my_ people." He pa.s.sed to the street upon which the hotel faced for a block, and walked down this, observing the decaying structure with greater curiosity. The entire building was, apparently, empty. A porch, supported by ma.s.sive iron pillars, reached over the walk, the entire length of the building. The large windows of the second story were without gla.s.s, and gaped darkly, seeming to tell a story which he would like to have known. The lower floor had evidently been given over to business purposes, judging from the wide windows that now were boarded over with two-inch planks. All this was decorated with stage announcements.

When he reached the other end, there was an opening; the door was to one side, and, more curious now than ever, he paused, and gazed into the dark interior. Soon he pa.s.sed within. The place seemed almost as dark as a dungeon at first, and he stood for a minute, until he had become accustomed to it. He pa.s.sed into the interior, and finally came into a room that was perfectly round. "An arch chamber, or what?" he conjectured. Out of the gloom a block arose. Something about it attracted him, and he crossed to where it was fitted into the wall. At one side he now read, "Sheriff's desk." On the other side he read, "Clerk." And now he looked at the block, and knew that it was on this _his_ people had been sold--at auction. He closed his eyes for a time, and allowed his thoughts--his imagination--to go back into the past, when rich planters, grand ladies, and harsh overseers once held sway.

And before him rose a picture.

"Hear me," the auctioneer, "I now offer the best n.i.g.g.e.r that ever held a plow. A good, strong rascal, that is worth:--How much am I offered to start him? How much am I offered to start him? Five hundred! Who is insane, or jokes? Five hundred for a n.i.g.g.e.r like this? Nonsense! Now, here, come forward, and feel this n.i.g.g.e.r's muscles, examine his teeth, strike his breast." And, to emphasize his good, robust property, he struck the slave a resounding lick across the breast, that would have knocked over half the people before him. Wyeth could seem to see the man, the black man, merely smile at all the faces about him.

"And now I am going to offer you something that will arouse you. Bring forward the wench, the pretty young wench."

A young mulatto Negress now stood before the crowd. A stirring, a collecting near the front, a crowding about the block; some almost getting upon it, in their excitement. A murmur went the rounds, and words could be heard. "I'd like to own her!" There was a consulting of bank books, a figuring of credit, and then the auctioneers voice was heard again.

"Look at 'er, look at 'er! Ha! A fine one, eh? Yes, a fine one.... Look at her form.... Look at her face! Here, bright eyes, hold up, hold up, and let the boys see what I have got.... What am I bid?"

"$1000."

"Say! The man that made that bid ought to be hung! A thousand dollars for a wench like this? Why, by all the pious G.o.ds, she is worth that for a year...."

"$1500."

"$2000."

"$2500."

"$3000."

"Ah, sir," said someone, and Wyeth came back to the present, to look down upon and old, white-haired woman, who was standing, observing him from the doorway. He bowed apologetically, got down, and went toward her.

"I have charge of the building," said she, speaking in a little strained voice. "Would you not like to view the interior?"

"I should like to, I am sure," he replied.

He followed her back to the door through which he had entered, and up a flight of winding, iron stairs to the next floor. Even these, he saw, had once been most magnificent. His guide offered no comment, but caught her breath in gasps as she ascended. When the landing had been reached, both paused for breath, while Wyeth's attention was immediately caught by the decaying grandeur, that was evident all about him. "Wonderful,"

he said at last, in a low, respectful voice, and as though he feared to disturb some of those grand persons that once had frequented it.

"Wonderful, you say?" echoed the woman, and regarded him out of small, sharp eyes.