"I's gwine t'see whar dey takes old mas'r, any
how, reckon I is," says the old slave, giving his head a significant
turn.
"Now, sir," interrupts the officer, as they arrive at the bottom of
the stairs, "perhaps you have a delicacy about going through the
street with a sheriff; many men have: therefore I shall confide in
your honour, sir, and shall give you the privilege of proceeding to
the gaol as best suits your feelings. I never allow myself to follow
the will of creditors; if I did, my duties would be turned into a
system of tyranny, to gratify their feelings only. Now, you may take
a carriage, or walk; only meet me at the prison gate."
"Thanks, thanks!" returns Marston, grateful for the officer's
kindness, "my crime is generosity; you need not fear me. My old
faithful here will guide me along." The officer bows assent, and
with a respectful wave of the hand they separate to pursue different
routes.
Marston walks slowly along, Bob keeping pace close behind. He passes
many of his old acquaintances, who, in better times, would have
recognised him with a cordial embrace; at present they have scarcely
a nod to spare. Marston, however, is firm in his resolution, looks
not on one side nor the other, and reaches the prison-gate in good
time. The officer has reached it in advance, and waits him there.
They pause a few moments as Marston scans the frowning wall that
encloses the gloomy-looking old prison. "I am ready to go in," says
Marston; and just as they are about to enter the arched gate, the
old slave touches him on the arm, and says, "Mas'r, dat's no place
fo'h Bob.
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