The quiet of the mansion has changed for uproar and confusion. Servants are running here and there, getting in each other's way, blocking the passages, and making the confusion more intense. Colonel M'Carstrow is sent for, reaches the mansion in great consternation, expects to find Franconia a corpse, for the negro messenger told him such a crooked story, and seemed so frightened, that he can't make anything straight of it-except that there is something very alarming.
She has been carried to one of the ante-chambers, reclines on a couch of softest tapestry, a physician at one side, and Alice, bathing her temples with aromatic liquid, on the other. She presents a ravishing picture of delicacy, modesty, and simplicity,—of all that is calmly beautiful in woman. "I can scarcely account for it; but, she's coming to," says the man of medicine, looking on mechanically. Her white bosom swells gently, like a newly-waked zephyr playing among virgin leaves; while her eyes, like melancholy stars, glimmer with the lustre of her soul. "Ah me!" she sighs, raising her hand over her head and resting it upon the cushion, as her auburn hair floats, calm and beautiful, down her pearly shoulder.
The colonel touches her hand; and, as if it had been too rudely, she draws it to her side, then places it upon her bosom. Again raising her eyes till they meet his, she blushes. It is the blush of innocence, that brightens beneath the spirit of calm resolution. She extends her hand again, slowly, and accepts his. "You will gratify me-will you not?" she mutters, attempting to gain a recumbent position. They raise her as she intimates a desire; she seems herself again.
"Whatever your wish may be, you have but to intimate it," replies the colonel, kissing her hand.
"Then, I want Clotilda. Go, bring her to me; she only can wait on me; and I am fond of her. With her I shall be well soon; she will dress me. Uncle will be happy, and we shall all be happy."
"But," the colonel interrupts, suddenly, "where is she to be found?"
"In the prison. You'll find her there!" There is little time to lose,—a carriage is ordered, the colonel drives to the prison, and there finds the object of Franconia's trouble. She, the two children at her side, sits in a cell seven by five feet; the strong grasp of slave power fears itself, its tyranny glares forth in the emaciated appearance of its female victim. The cell is lighted through a small aperture in the door, which hangs with heavy bolts and bars, as if torturing the innocent served the power of injustice. The prison-keeper led the way through a narrow passage between stone walls. His tap on the door startles her; she moves from her position, where she had been seated on a coarse blanket. It is all they (the hospitable southern world, with its generous laws) can afford her; she makes it a bed for three. A people less boastful of hospitality may give her more. She holds a prayer-book in her hand, and motions to the children as they crouch at her feet.
"Come, girl! somebody's here to see you," says the keeper, looking in at the aperture, as the sickly stench escapes from the dark cavern-like place.
Nervously, the poor victim approaches, lays her trembling hand on the grating, gives a doubting glance at the stranger, seems surprised, anxious to know the purport of his mission.
"Am I wanted?" she enquires eagerly, as if fearing some rude dealer has come-perhaps to examine her person, that he may be the better able to judge of her market value.