“Let's have a little fun,” said the mischievous Marcus to his young companions. “I will make Uncle Tony believe that I am old mistress, and he'll give us an extra touch in his prayer.” Mark immediately commenced talking in a strain of voice resembling, as well as he could, Mrs. Miller, and at once Tony was heard to say in a loud voice, “O Lord, thou knowest that the white people are not fit to die; but, as for old Tony, whenever the angel of the Lord comes, he's ready.” At that moment, Mark tapped lightly on the door. “Who's dar?” thundered old Tony. Mark made no reply. The old man commenced and went through with the same remarks addressed to the Lord, when Mark again knocked at the door. “Who dat dar?” asked Uncle Tony, with a somewhat agitated countenance and trembling voice. Still Mark would not reply. Again Tony took up the thread of his discourse, and said, “O Lord, thou knowest as well as I do that dese white folks are not prepared to die, but here is old Tony, when de angel of de Lord comes, he's ready to go to heaven.” Mark once more knocked on the door. “Who dat dar?” thundered Tony at the top of his voice.
“De angel of de Lord,” replied Mark, in a somewhat suppressed and sepulchral voice.
“What de angel of de Lord want here?” inquired Tony, as if much frightened.
“He's come for poor old Tony, to take him out of the world,” replied Mark, in the same strange voice.
“Dat nigger ain't here; he die tree weeks ago,” responded Tony, in a still more agitated and frightened tone. Mark and his companions made the welkin ring with their shouts at the old man's answer. Uncle Tony hearing them, and finding that he had been imposed upon, opened his door, came out with stick in hand, and said, “Is dat you, Mr. Mark? you imp, if I can get to you I'll larn you how to come here wid your nonsense.”
Mark and his companions left the garden, feeling satisfied that Uncle Tony was not as ready to go with “de angel of de Lord” as he would have others believe.
CHAPTER XIV. THE PRISON
WHILE poor little Clotelle was being kicked about by Mrs. Miller, on account of her relationship to her son-in-law, Isabella was passing lonely hours in the county jail, the place to which Jennings had removed her for safe-keeping, after purchasing her from Mrs. Miller. Incarcerated in one of the iron-barred rooms of that dismal place, those dark, glowing eyes, lofty brow, and graceful form wilted down like a plucked rose under a noonday sun, while deep in her heart's ambrosial cells was the most anguishing distress.
Vulgar curiosity is always in search of its victims, and Jennings' boast that he had such a ladylike and beautiful woman in his possession brought numbers to the prison who begged of the jailer the privilege of seeing the slave-trader's prize. Many who saw her were melted to tears at the pitiful sight, and were struck with admiration at her intelligence; and, when she spoke of her child, they must have been convinced that a mother's sorrow can be conceived by none but a mother's heart. The warbling of birds in the green bowers of bliss, which she occasionally heard, brought no tidings of gladness to her. Their joy fell cold upon her heart, and seemed like bitter mockery. They reminded her of her own cottage, where, with her beloved child, she had spent so many happy days.