dence permitted, and was about leaving the room, when Epps inquired,
"Platt, do you know this gentleman?"
"Yes, master," I replied, "I have known him as long as I can remember."
"Where does he live?"
"He lives in New-York."
"Did you ever live there?"
"Yes, master—born and bred there."
"You was free, then. Now you d——d nigger," he exclaimed, "why did you not tell me that when I bought you?"
"Master Epps," I answered, in a somewhat different tone than the one in which I had been accustomed to address him—"Master Epps, you did not take the trouble to ask me; besides, I told one of my owners—the man that kidnapped me—that I was free, and was whipped almost to death for it."
"It seems there has been a letter written for you by somebody. Now, who is it?" he demanded, authoritatively. I made no reply.
"I say, who wrote that letter?" he demanded again.
"Perhaps I wrote it myself," I said.
"You haven't been to Marksville post-office and back before light, I know."
He insisted upon my informing him, and I insisted I would not. He made many vehement threats against the man, whoever he might be, and intimated the bloody and savage vengeance he would wreak upon
