The
prison-keeper led the way through a narrow passage between stone
walls. His tap on the door startles her; she moves from her
position, where she had been seated on a coarse blanket. It is all
they (the hospitable southern world, with its generous laws) can
afford her; she makes it a bed for three. A people less boastful of
hospitality may give her more. She holds a prayer-book in her hand,
and motions to the children as they crouch at her feet.
"Come, girl! somebody's here to see you," says the keeper, looking
in at the aperture, as the sickly stench escapes from the dark
cavern-like place.
Nervously, the poor victim approaches, lays her trembling hand on
the grating, gives a doubting glance at the stranger, seems
surprised, anxious to know the purport of his mission.
"Am I wanted?" she enquires eagerly, as if fearing some rude dealer
has come-perhaps to examine her person, that he may be the better
able to judge of her market value.
Notwithstanding the coldness of M'Carstrow's nature, his feelings
are moved by the womanly appearance of the wench, as he calls her,
when addressing the warden. There is something in the means by which
so fair a creature is reduced to merchandise he cannot altogether
reconcile. Were it not for what habit and education can do, it would
be repulsive to nature in its crudest state. But it is according to
law, that inhuman law which is tolerated in a free country.
"I want you to go with me, and you will see your young missis," says
M'Carstrow, shrugging his shoulders.
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