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The fatal hour came. Planters rode miles to witness the execution, and stood glaring at their trembling victim, with the fierceness of tigers. The slaves from miles around were assembled, to take warning by his awful punishment. The rope was adjusted on the strong bough of a tree. Mars shook like a leaf in the wind. The countenance of George was very pale and haggard, and his breast was heaving with tumultuous thoughts.’He is my enemy,’ said he to himself; ’tis an awful thing to die thus. The theftI did not commit; but if I take all the blame, they can do no more than hang me.’

They led the shivering wretch towards the tree, and were about to fasten the fatal noose. But George rushed forward with a countenance ghastly pale, and exclaimed, ‘Mars is innocent. I murdered him–for he killed my wife, and hell was in my bosom.’

No voice praised him for the generous confession. They kicked and cursed him; and hung up, like a dog or a wolf, a man of nobler soul than any of them all.

The Georgian papers thus announced the deed:’Fiend-like Murder. Frederic Dalcho, one of our most wealthy and respected citizens, was robbed and murdered last week, by one of his slaves. The black demon was caught and hung; and hanging was too good for him.’

The Northern papers copied this version; merely adding, ‘These are the black-hearted monsters, which abolition philanthropy would let loose upon our brethren of the South.’

Not one was found to tell how the slave’s young wife had been torn from him by his own brother, and murdered with slow tortures. Not one recorded the heroism that would not purchase life by another’s death, though the victim was his enemy. His very namewas left unmentioned; he was only Mr. Dalcho’s slave!