I wondered to myself what business he could possiblyhave with me， and turning round， gazed at him until hehad approached within a step. During my long residenceon the bayou， I had become familiar with the face of everyplanter within many miles； but this man was an utterstranger—certainly I had never seen him before.
“Your name is Platt， is it？” he asked.
“Yes， master，” I responded.
Pointing towards Northup， standing a few rods distant，he demanded—“Do you know that man？”
I looked in the direction indicated， and as my eyesrested on his countenance， a world of images throngedmy brain； a multitude of well-known faces—Anne’s，and the dear children’s， and my old dead father’s； allthe scenes and associations of childhood and youth；all the friends of other and happier days， appeared anddisappeared， flitting and floating like dissolving shadowsbefore the vision of my imagination， until at last theperfect memory of the man recurred to me， and throwingup my hands towards Heaven， I exclaimed， in a voicelouder than I could utter in a less exciting moment—“Henry B. Northup！ Thank God—thank God！”
In an instant I comprehended the nature of hisbusiness， and felt that the hour of my deliverance wasat hand. I started towards him， but the sheriff steppedbefore me.
“Stop a moment，” said he； “have you any other namethan Platt？”
“Solomon Northup is my name， master，” I replied.
“Have you a family？” he inquired.
“I had a wife and three children.”
“What were your children’s names？”
“Elizabeth， Margaret and Alonzo.”
“And your wife’s name before her marriage？”
“Anne Hampton.”
“Who married you？”
“Timothy Eddy， of Fort Edward.”
“Where does that gentleman live？” again pointing toNorthup， who remained standing in the same place whereI had first recognized him.
“He lives in Sandy Hill， Washington county， NewYork，” was the reply.
He was proceeding to ask further questions， but Ipushed past him， unable longer to restrain myself. Iseized my old acquaintance by both hands. I could notspeak. I could not refrain from tears.
“Sol，” he said at length， “I’m glad to see you.”
I essayed to make some answer， but emotion chokedall utterance， and I was silent. The slaves， utterlyconfounded， stood gazing upon the scene， their openmouths and rolling eyes indicating the utmost wonderand astonishment. For ten years I had dwelt among them， in the field and in the cabin， borne the same hardships，partaken the same fare， mingled my griefs with theirs，participated in the same scanty joys； nevertheless， notuntil this hour， the last I was to remain among them， hadthe remotest suspicion of my true name， or the slightestknowledge of my real history， been entertained by anyone of them.
Not a word was spoken for several minutes， duringwhich time I clung fast to Northup， looking up into hisface， fearful I should awake and find it all a dream.
“Throw down that sack，” Northup added， finally； “yourcotton-picking days are over. Come with us to the manyou live with.”
I obeyed him， and walking between him and thesheriff， we moved towards the great house. It wasnot until we had proceeded some distance that I hadrecovered my voice sufficiently to ask if my family wereall living. He informed me he had seen Anne， Margaretand Elizabeth but a short time previously； that Alonzowas still living， and all were well. My mother， however，I could never see again. As I began to recover in somemeasure from the sudden and great excitement whichso overwhelmed me， I grew faint and weak， insomuchit was with difficulty I could walk. The sheriff took holdof my arm and assisted me， or I think I should havefallen. As we entered the yard， Epps stood by the gate，conversing with the driver. That young man， faithful tohis instructions， was entirely unable to give him the least information in answer to his repeated inquiries of whatwas going on. By the time we reached him he was almostas much amazed and puzzled as Bob or Uncle Abram.
Shaking hands with the sheriff， and receiving anintroduction to Mr. Northup， he invited them into house，ordering me， at the same time， to bring in some wood. Itwas some time before I succeeded in cutting an armful，SCENE IN THE COTTON FIELD， SOLOMON DELIVERED UP.
having， somehow， unaccountably lost the power ofwielding the axe with any manner of precision. When Ientered with it at last， the table was strewn with papers，from one of which Northup was reading. I was probablylonger than necessity required， in placing the sticksupon the fire， being particular as to the exact position ofeach individual one of them. I heard the words， “the saidSolomon Northup，” and “the deponent further says，” and“free citizen of New-York，” repeated frequently， and fromthese expressions understood that the secret I had solong retained from Master and Mistress Epps， was finallydeveloping. I lingered as long as prudence permitted， andwas about leaving the room， when Epps inquired，“Platt， do you know this gentleman？”
“Yes， master，” I replied， “I have known him as long as Ican 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 differenttone than the one in which I had been accustomed toaddress him “Master Epps， you did not take the troubleto ask me； besides， I told one of my owners—the man thatkidnapped me—that I was free， and was whipped almostto death for it.”
