Connected with the estate at Bellevue, of which Jaspar Dumont was now in actual possession, was a small slave jail. It had been constructed under the immediate direction of Jaspar, to afford a place of confinement for the runaway or refractory negroes of the plantation. It was located at some distance from the proprietary mansion, and from the quarters of the negroes. Jaspar's taste in matters of this kind was of the most refined character, and he had caused it to be constructed on a plan and in a manner that would seem to bid defiance to the skill of a Baron Trenck, or a Stephen Burroughs. The material was granite, brought at no trifling expense from the North. There were no windows upon the sides, and only one entrance, which was secured by double iron doors. Light and air were supplied, in meagre quantities, by means of a skylight in the roof, which was regulated by a cord passing down upon the outside.
This jail, either by accident or design, was so constructed that any noise inside was not transmitted to the outside. Whether this was because of the reflecting properties of the walls, which might have sent the sound echoing out at the skylight on the apex of the four-sided roof, or because of some other natural causes, we shall not take up the reader's time in discussing. Its inmates might startle Heaven with their cries, but certainly every ear on earth below must be deaf to their wail. This circumstance seemed typical of the actual fact of oppression; but we are sure that Jaspar never meant to typify the groans, by man unheeded, of the victims of tyranny ascending to be heard above.
It was the day after the events related in the last chapter, and the negro jail was tenanted; but not by a refractory or a runaway slave. It was now devoted to a more dignified purpose, being occupied by a white man and his wife, the victims of Jaspar Dumont's hatred and fears. They had already been prisoners for the past forty-eight hours. No sound from the wide, wide world without had reached them; and, though the man had shouted himself hoarse in endeavors to arrest the attention of any casual passer-by, the sound of his voice had risen to Heaven, but had not been heard by any mortal ear.
On a heap of dirty straw, in one corner, lay a female. She was feeble and helpless. By her side, gazing sadly upon her, was her companion, pale and haggard, and apparently conquered in spirit. The sufferings of the frail being by his side seemed to pierce him to the soul. He felt not for himself; his thoughts, his feelings, all were devoted to her, whom he had loved and respected through many vicissitudes, whose kindly sympathy had cheered his heart in many of the severest of earth's trials. They had passed through peril and poverty together, and now the cup of tribulation seemed full to the brim. They were doomed to death,—not to the death of the malefactor, but as victims of private interest. No friendly jailer had been near, to bring them even a cup of cold water to assuage their consuming thirst. Not a morsel of food had they tasted since their incarceration! The terrible doom to which they were consigned was too apparent; there was nothing to foreshadow even the slightest hope of redemption. A few days' intercourse with their inhuman persecutor had demonstrated too plainly that he was equal to any crime which his own safety demanded.
The female turned uneasily upon her rude and filthy bed. Her companion bent over her, and, as a flood of tears poured from his sunken eyes, he imprinted a kiss upon her pale cheek.
"Do you feel no better, Delia?" asked he, tenderly.
"Alas, no! The sands of life are fast ebbing out. O, for a single drop of cold water!"
"God in heaven! must I see her die, with no power to save?" exclaimed Dalhousie,—for it was he,—striking his hands violently upon his forehead.
"Do not let me distress you, Francois! Let me die!—I am ready to die," said she, faintly.
Dalhousie could make no reply. His emotions were too powerful to permit his utterance. Maddened by despair, into which the terrible situation of his cherished wife had plunged him, he paced the jail with long strides, gazing about him, as if to seek some desperate remedy for his woes. Escape had scarcely presented itself to his mind. He had not the energy of character which rises superior to every ill, and had bent himself supinely to the fate which awaited him. To work through the solid walls of the jail seemed to him an impossibility, even if provided with the necessary implements. The scheme was too vast for his mind, unaccustomed, as it was, to contend with great difficulties.