The poor man's young wife crept round, as she sang, and, kneeling at her feet, gently kissed her hand: the negro's eyes closed drowsily, opened, and closed again, in the sleep of exhaustion and relief; and Bessy, suffering her voice gradually to die away, closed the song at the end of the third stanza. The surgeon wiped something like a tear from his eye, and we all stole quietly out of the cabin.
"Well, I do think you are an angel, after all," said the good doctor, addressing Bessy, when we were in the open air.
"Hush, doctor, hush!" answered she almost sadly. "I never felt myself more completely mortal than at this moment--more weak--more worthless."
"Well, then, what is perhaps better than an angel," added the enthusiastic old gentleman, "you are the best specimen of a right, true-hearted Virginia girl. God bless them all! I never could get one of them to marry me; but it was not my fault, and their good luck."
"But tell us about the other men," said Mr. Thornton. "I heard there were three wounded."
"Oh, mere flesh wounds," answered the surgeon; "they will get well without much doctoring, when negroes or labourers are in the scrape. They are very serious, of course," he added with a comical smile, "when rich gentlemen and baronets from foreign lands are under our hands. With them, the cases are all very peculiar; and we get as much credit and as many fees out of them as we can. I have no patience, however," he continued, "with this Robert Thornton, for putting two bullets in his gun, to shoot a poor negro. I am sorry I helped to cure the bloody-minded scoundrel, and I shall tell him so the next time I see him."
"You will never see him more, Doctor Christy," replied Mr. Henry Thornton. "He was shot dead this morning, by Nat Turner, near the State-line." The good surgeon actually gasped with surprise; but he soon recovered his facetious mood; for sometimes doctors, like undertakers, become so habituated and familiar with death, that they can joke with the "lean abhorred monster," as if he were a boon companion.
"Nat Turner! again Nat Turner!" he cried. "Why, this fellow is ubiquitous. But I suppose his killing Bob Thornton will be a good thing for him; for, though a jury may condemn him for his other murders, of course the governor will pardon him in reward for this. I am sorry for the old man, however; he won't know what to do without his son. By his help, he had got three-quarters of the way to the dogs already; and now he will have no one to show him the remainder."
"He will find it easily enough," said Mr. Thornton, drily. And, mounting our horses again, we were about to ride on to the house of the sheriff, when Bessy perceived that old Jenny was not with us. On inquiry, we found that she had remained in the cabin; and when the surgeon beckoned her out, she approached Mr. Thornton's horse, saying,--
"Please, Mas'r Henry, I think I'll stay here, if you'se no objection."