The morning dawns bright and sunny: Franconia has not slept. She has
passed the hours in watchfulness; has watched the negro sleeping,
while her thoughts were rivetted to the scene in the hall. She gets
up, paces the room from the couch to the window, and sits down again
undecided, unresolved. Taking Diana-such is the servant's name-by
the hand, she wakes her, and sends her into the hall to ascertain
the condition of the sleepers. The metamorphosed group, poisoning
the air with their reeking breath, are still enjoying the morbid
fruits of their bacchanalianism. Quietly, coolly, and promiscuously,
they lay as lovingly as fellows of the animal world could desire.
The servant returns, shaking her head. "Missus, da'h lays yander, so
in all fixins dat no tellin' which most done gone. Mas'r seems done
gone, sartin!" says the servant, her face glowing with apprehension.
The significant phrase alarms Franconia. She repairs to the hall,
and commences restoring the sleepers to consciousness. The gentlemen
are doggedly obstinate; they refuse to be disturbed. She recognises
the face of one whose business it is to reduce men to the last stage
of poverty. Her sensitive nature shudders at the sight, as she views
him with a curl of contempt on her lip. "Oh,
M'Carstrow,--M'Carstrow!" she whispers, and taking him by the hand,
shakes it violently. M'Carstrow, with countenance ghastly and
inflamed, begins to raise his sluggish head. He sees Franconia
pensively gazing in his face; and yet he enquires who it is that
disturbs the progress of his comforts.
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