“Then,” said she, “Clotelle will die of grief.”
“What business has she to die of grief?” returned the father, his eyes at the moment flashing fire.
“She has neither eaten nor slept since he was captured,” replied Georgiana; “and I am certain that she will not live through this.”
“I cannot be disturbed now,” said the parson; “I must get my sermon ready for to-morrow. I expect to have some strangers to preach to, and must, therefore, prepare a sermon that will do me credit.”
While the man of God spoke, he seemed to say to himself,—
“With devotion's visage, and pious actions,
We do sugar over the devil himself.”
Georgiana did all in her power to soothe the feelings of Clotelle, and to induce her to put her trust in God. Unknown to her father, she allowed the poor girl to go every evening to the jail to see Jerome, and during these visits, despite her own grief, Clotelle would try to comfort her lover with the hope that justice would be meted out to him in the spirit-land.
Thus the time passed on, and the day was fast approaching when the slave was to die. Having heard that some secret meeting had been held by the negroes, previous to the attempt of Mr. Wilson to flog his slave, it occurred to a magistrate that Jerome might know something of the intended revolt. He accordingly visited the prison to see if he could learn anything from him, but all to no purpose. Having given up all hopes of escape, Jerome had resolved to die like a brave man. When questioned as to whether he knew anything of a conspiracy among the slaves against their masters, he replied,—
“Do you suppose that I would tell you if I did?”
“But if you know anything,” remarked the magistrate, “and will tell us, you may possibly have your life spared.”