There had
been a good deal of drinking and John certainly that very morning had
felt strongly Melanctha's power as a woman. James Herbert was always
a fierce, suspicious, serious negro, and drinking never made him feel
more open. He looked very black and evil as he sat and listened while
John grew more and more admiring as he talked half to himself, half to
the father, of the virtues and the sweetness of Melanctha.
Suddenly between them there came a moment filled full with strong
black curses, and then sharp razors flashed in the black hands, that
held them flung backward in the negro fashion, and then for some
minutes there was fierce slashing.
John was a decent, pleasant, good natured, light brown negro, but he
knew how to use a razor to do bloody slashing.
When the two men were pulled apart by the other negroes who were in
the room drinking, John had not been much wounded but James Herbert
had gotten one good strong cut that went from-his right shoulder down
across the front of his whole body. Razor fighting does not wound very
deeply, but it makes a cut that looks most nasty, for it is so very
bloody.
Herbert was held by the other negroes until he was cleaned and
plastered, and then he was put to bed to sleep off his drink and
fighting.
The next day he came to where his wife and daughter lived and he was
furious.
"Where's that Melanctha, of yours?" he said to his wife, when he saw
her.
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