“You too sing?” he asked. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. It just made me mad to the boiling point. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. "He has robbed him. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane.
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