Again, as if suddenly seized with pain, he contorts his face, and
enquires in a half-whisper--"What if this wound should mortify?
would death follow quickly? I'm dubious yet!"
Mine host approaches nearer his bed-side, takes his hand. M'Fadden,
with much apparent meekness, would know what he thought of his case?
He is assured by the kind gentleman that he is entirely out of
danger-worth a whole parish of dead men. At the same time, mine host
insinuates that he will never do to fight duels until he learns to
die fashionably.
M'Fadden smiles,--remembers how many men have been nearly killed and
yet escaped the undertaker,--seems to have regained strength, and
calls for a glass of whiskey and water. Not too strong! but,
reminding mine host of the excellent quality of his bitters, he
suggests that a little may better his case.
"I didn't mean the wound," resuming his anxiety for the lost
preacher: "I meant the case of the runaway?"
"Oh! oh! bless me! he will forget he is a runaway piece of property
in his anxiousness to put forth his spiritual inclinations. That's
what'll betray the scamp;--nigger will be nigger, you know! They
can't play the lawyer, nohow," mine host replies, with an assurance
of his ability to judge negro character. This is a new idea, coming
like the dew-drops of heaven to relieve his anxiety. The consoling
intelligence makes him feel more comfortable.
The whiskey-and-bitters-most unpoetic drink-is brought to his
bed-side.
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