The sheriff, insisting that it was his rule to make no
distinction of persons, allowed prison cot and prison matress to
which, by the kind permission of the warden, Franconia added sheets
and a coverlit. Upon this, in a corner at the right, and opposite a
spacious fire-place, in which are two bricks supporting a small iron
kettle, lies the once opulent planter,--now with eyes glassy and
discoloured, a ghastly corpse. His house once was famous for its
princely hospitality,--the prison cot is not now his bequest: but it
is all the world has left him on which to yield up his life. "Oh,
uncle! uncle! uncle!" exclaims Franconia, who has been bathing his
contorted face with her tears, "would that God had taken me
too-buried our troubles in one grave! There is no trouble in that
world to which he has gone: joy, virtue, and peace, reign triumphant
there," she speaks, sighing, as she raises her bosom from off the
dead man. Harry has touched her on the shoulder with his left hand,
and is holding the dead man's with his right: he seems in deep
contemplation. His mind is absorbed in the melancholy scene; but,
though his affection is deep, he has no tears to shed at this
moment. No; he will draw a chair for Franconia, and seat her near
the head of the cot, for the fountains of her grief have overflown.
Discoloured and contorted, what a ghastly picture the dead man's
face presents! Glassy, and with vacant glare, those eyes, strange in
death, seem wildly staring upward from earth.
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