"When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight. Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor.
"Misty Posson Jone'," said the visitor, softly.
"O Jools!"
"Mais, w'at de matter, Posson Jone'?"
"My sins, Jools, my sins!"
"Ah! Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometime a litt' bit intoxicate? Mais, if a man keep ALL THE TIME intoxicate, I think that is again' the conscien'."
"Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened—oh! Jools, where's my pore old niggah?"
"Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste."
"Where?"
"I don' know w'ere—mais he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody."