His whole appearance was a dazzling contradiction of the notion that a Creole is a person of mixed blood.
"I think I can!" replied the convalescent, with much spirit, rising with more haste than was good, and staggering a moment.
The horseman laughed outright.
"Your principle is the best, I cannot dispute that; but whether you can act it out--reformers do not make money, you know." He examined his saddle-girth and began to tighten it.

"One can condemn--too cautiously--by a kind of--elevated cowardice (I have that fault); but one can also condemn too rashly; I remember when I did so.

One of the occupants of those two graves you see yonder side by side--I think might have lived longer if I had not spoken so rashly for his rights.

Did you ever hear of Bras-Coupe, Mr.Frowenfeld ?" "I have heard only the name." "Ah! Mr.Frowenfeld, _there_ was a bold man's chance to denounce wrong and oppression! Why, that negro's death changed the whole channel of my convictions." The speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with frowning earnestness; he dropped it and smiled at himself.
"Do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned Philadelphia '_negrophiles_'; I am a merchant, my-de'-seh, a good subject of His Catholic Majesty, a Creole of the Creoles, and so forth, and so forth.

Come!" He slapped the saddle.
To have seen and heard them a little later as they moved toward the city, the Creole walking before the horse, and Frowenfeld sitting in the saddle, you might have supposed them old acquaintances.