Conclaves of grotesque
figures are seated in the veranda and drinking-room, breaking the
midnight stillness with their stifled songs, their frenzied
congratulations, their political jargon; nothing of fatal
consequence would seem to have happened.
"Did master send for me? You've risen from a rag shop, my man!"
interrupts the physician.
"Master there-sorry to see him sick-owns me." Harry cast a subdued
look on the bed where lay his late purchaser.
Harry's appearance is not the most prepossessing,--he might have been
taken for anything else but a minister of the gospel; though the
quick eye of the southerner readily detected those frank and manly
features which belong to a class of very dark men who exhibit
uncommon natural genius.
At the sound of Harry's voice, M'Fadden makes an effort to raise
himself on his elbow. The loss of blood has so reduced his physical
power that his effort is unsuccessful. He sinks back,
prostrate,--requests the physician to assist him in turning over. He
will face his preacher. Putting out his hand, he embraces him
cordially,--motions him to be seated.
The black preacher, that article of men merchandise, takes a seat at
the bed-side, while the man of medicine withdraws to the table. The
summons is as acceptable to Harry as it is strange to the physician,
who has never before witnessed so strange a scene of familiarity
between slave and master. All is silent for several minutes. Harry
looks at his master, as if questioning the motive for which he is
summoned into his presence; and still he can read the deep anxiety
playing upon M'Fadden's distorted countenance.
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