"How the
old man battles for his good master!" returns Harry, as Franconia
taps gently on the door. The wooden trap over the grating is closed;
bolts hang carelessly from their staples; and yet, though the door
is secured with a hook on the inside, disease and death breathe
their morbid fumes through the scarce perceptible crevices. A
whispering-"Come in!" is heard in reply to the tap upon the door,
which slowly opens, and the face of old Bob, bathed in grief,
protrudes round the frame. "Oh, missus-missus-missus-God give good
missus spirit!" he exclaims, seizing Franconia fervently by the
hand, and looking in her face imploringly. A fotid stench pervaded
the atmosphere of the gloomy cell; it is death spreading its humid
malaria. "Good old master is g-g-g-gone!" mutters the negro, in
half-choked accents.
With a wild shriek, the noble woman rushes to the side of his prison
cot, seizes his blanched hand that hangs carelessly over the iron
frame, grasps his head frantically, and draws it to her bosom, as
the last gurgle of life bids adieu to the prostrate body. He is
dead!
The old slave has watched over him, shared his sorrows and his
crust, has sung a last song to his departing spirit. How truthful
was that picture of the dying master and his slave! The old man,
struggling against the infirmities of age, had escaped the hands of
the man-seller, served his master with but one object-his soul's
love-and relieved his necessities, until death, ending his troubles,
left no more to relieve.
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