Двенадцать лет рабства

           AttheendofaquarterofamileIreachedthewood-pasture,anditwasashorttimeindeedthatIhadbeenrunningit. Climbingontoahighfence,Icouldseethecottonpress,thegreathouse,andthespacebetween. Itwasaconspicuousposition,fromwhencethewholeplantationwasinview. IsawTibeatscrossthefieldtowardsthehouse,andenterit—thenhecameout,carryinghissaddle,andpresentlymountedhishorseandgallopedaway. 

           Iwasdesolate,butthankful. Thankfulthatmylifewasspared,—desolateanddiscouragedwiththeprospectbeforeme. Whatwouldbecomeofme? Whowouldbefriendme? WhithershouldIfly? Oh,God! Thouwhogavestmelife,andimplantedinmybosomtheloveoflife—whofilleditwithemotionssuchasothermen,thycreatures,have,donotforsakeme. Havepityonthepoorslave—letmenotperish. Ifthoudostnotprotectme,Iamlost—lost! Suchsupplications,silentlyandunuttered,ascendedfrommyinmosthearttoHeaven. Buttherewasnoansweringvoice—nosweet,lowtone,comingdownfromonhigh,whisperingtomysoul, "ItisI,benotafraid." IwastheforsakenofGod,itseemed—thedespisedandhatedofmen! 

           Inaboutthree-fourthsofanhourseveraloftheslavesshoutedandmadesignsformetorun. Presently,lookingupthebayou,IsawTibeatsandtwoothersonhorse-back,comingatafastgait,followedbyatroopofdogs. Therewereasmanyaseightorten. DistantasIwas,Iknewthem. Theybelongedontheadjoiningplantation.