“Nellie, dearest,” she murmured, very softly, “when prisoners die, their bodies are given up to their friends, are they not?”
“Yes, surely, dearest Marguerite, when they have friends to claim their bodies,” answered the lady, greatly wondering at the strange direction the dying woman’s delirium had now taken.
“And if they have not friends, then they are buried in the prison grounds, are they not?” continued Mrs. Helmstedt.
“Of course, I suppose so, dear Marguerite.”
“But, Nellie, I have friends to claim my body, after death, have I not?”
“What do you say, dearest?” inquired Mrs. Houston, bending closer down, for the voice of the dying was nearly extinct.
“I say, Nellie, dear, when my spirit flees, it would not leave this poor, racked frame behind in the prison. Claim my body, Nellie, and bury it anywhere! anywhere! out of this prison!”
“Yes, dearest Marguerite; be content; I will do it,” answered Mrs. Houston, soothingly, as she would have spoken to a maniac.
“What does she say?” asked old Mrs. Compton.
“Oh, nothing to any purpose, mother. She is wandering dreadfully in her mind,” whispered the unsuspicious Nellie. As if calmed by her friend’s promise, Mrs. Helmstedt lay perfectly quiet for a few moments, and then her fair, thin hand went wandering over the quilt, as if to clasp that other loving hand, and not meeting it, she opened her large, dark eyes, turning them about the dusky room, as if in search of some one; then she raised and fixed them, with a wild gaze, upon that sinister shadow that swooped over her head.