"He's sick: walk softly, and don't think of the prisoners. Knock at the door afore enterin'," says a staid-looking warden, emerging from a small door on the left hand of the vestibule.
"Zist! zist!" returns the other, pointing with the forefinger of his right hand down the aisle, and, placing his left, gently, on Franconia's shoulder, motioning her to move on.
Slowly, her handkerchief to her face, she obeys the sign, and is moving down the corridor, now encountering anxious eyes peering through the narrow grating of huge black doors. And then a faint, dolorous sound strikes on their listening ears. They pause for a moment,—listen again! It becomes clearer and clearer; and they advance with anxious curiosity. "It's Daddy Bob's voice," whispers Harry; "but how distant it sounds!
"Even that murmurs in his confinement," returns Franconia.
"How, like a thing of life, it recalls the past-the past of happiness!" says Harry, as they reach the cell door, and, tremulously, hesitate for a few moments.
"Listen again!" continues Harry. The sound having ceased a moment or two, again commences, and the word "There's a place for old mas'r yet, And de Lord will see him dar," are distinctly audible. "How the old man battles for his good master!" returns Harry, as Franconia taps gently on the door. The wooden trap over the grating is closed; bolts hang carelessly from their staples; and yet, though the door is secured with a hook on the inside, disease and death breathe their morbid fumes through the scarce perceptible crevices. A whispering-"Come in!" is heard in reply to the tap upon the door, which slowly opens, and the face of old Bob, bathed in grief, protrudes round the frame. "Oh, missus-missus-missus-God give good missus spirit!" he exclaims, seizing Franconia fervently by the hand, and looking in her face imploringly. A fotid stench pervaded the atmosphere of the gloomy cell; it is death spreading its humid malaria. "Good old master is g-g-g-gone!" mutters the negro, in half-choked accents.
With a wild shriek, the noble woman rushes to the side of his prison cot, seizes his blanched hand that hangs carelessly over the iron frame, grasps his head frantically, and draws it to her bosom, as the last gurgle of life bids adieu to the prostrate body. He is dead!
The old slave has watched over him, shared his sorrows and his crust, has sung a last song to his departing spirit. How truthful was that picture of the dying master and his slave! The old man, struggling against the infirmities of age, had escaped the hands of the man-seller, served his master with but one object-his soul's love-and relieved his necessities, until death, ending his troubles, left no more to relieve. Now, distracted between joy at meeting Harry, and sorrow for the death of master, the poor old man is lost in the confusion of his feelings. After saluting Franconia, he turned to Harry, threw his arms around his neck, buried his head in his bosom, and wept like a child. "Home-home again,—my Harry! but too late to see mas'r," he says, as the fountains of his soul give out their streams.
"We must all go where master has gone," returns Harry, as he, more calm, fondles the old man, and endeavours to reconcile his feelings. "Sit there, my old friend-sit there; and remember that God called master away. I must go to his bed-side," whispers Harry, seating the old man on a block of wood near the foot of the cot, where he pours forth the earnest of his grief.