The good old colored woman went down on her knees there upon the mossy cushion of the earth, pouring out her soul in prayer for the haggard being, who sat, with his chin in his hands, listening to her appeal in his behalf. Tears streamed down her cheeks; the earnestness, the pathos of her sincere petitions to that great Father whom she seemed to believe had power to comfort and take care of him and adopt him as a child, touched his lonely, sullen, misanthropic nature—his sobs accompanied her "Amen!"
"I shouldn't be such a baby as to cry," he said, when she had finished, "if I wasn't so weak; but when a fellow's fasted a week he ain't none of the bravest. I thank you, though, for your prayer, Aunt Pallas—I'll remember it to my dyin' day. Here's the gun—take it. P'raps if I keep it an hour longer, I'll want to do some mischief with it. Take it, while you can get it; and bring me some food, as you promised. If you break your promise, and bring them men here to take me up, I shan't never have no faith in prayers. If you want to make a Christian of me, you mus'n't fool me."
"Neither will I," said Pallas; "I'll be back here in an hour wid bread and meat. You'd better make up your mind, by dat time, to go home wid me, gib yerself up to masser, and let him do as he feels is best wid yer. He'll act for de bes', be sure."
She took the gun and hastened off with it, glad to get that means of harm away from him. She was firmly resolved not to break her promise to him, much as she desired that he might be put in safe quarters, and this uncomfortable suspense be done away with. As he had confessed himself so changeable in his moods, she did not rely much upon his present one. Reaching home, she stowed the rifle away, saying nothing about it, and filling her basket with substantial food, she returned to the appointed spot. To her surprise, Ben was not there. She waited a few minutes, but he did not come.
"I can't bar to know a human critter is starving to def," she muttered, setting the basket in a branch of the fallen tree. "I'll leave dis here—and now I've kep' my promise I'll go straight home and tell masser all 'bout it, and he can take sech steps as he tinks bes'."
She gave a graphic account of the whole interview to the raftsman as soon as he came in to tea. When she came to that part of his confession where he spoke of being about to choke Philip, while on the river, Alice turned pale, saying with a shudder—as she recalled one of those visions which haunted her dreams during that terrible period of the journey of her lover with his deadly enemy:
"Yes! yes! I did—but it was in a dream. I beheld the skiff gliding along in the starlight, Philip sleeping, his arm under his head, and his carpet-bag for a pillow; Ben was stooping over him, his face was white as ashes, his teeth were clenched, his hands were creeping toward Philip's throat—I sprang upon him—I held his hands—I drew him back—I screamed—and the scream awoke me, and father rushed into my room to see what was the matter. You ridiculed my nightmare, father, don't you recollect?"
"Poor boy," said the raftsman, wiping a tear from his cheek, when his servant had concluded her relation. "I'm right down sorry for the lad. And when you are married and out of the way, puss, I'll take him in hand, and try and reclaim him. He'll make a man yet."
"He ain't to blame fer his faults, seeing he's never had no good broughten' up. I'll teach him the New Testament doctrines ef he'll only let me, once Miss Alice is 'way," remarked Pallas.