How unnatural those
sunken cheeks--those lips wet with the excrement of black vomit--that
throat reddened with the pestilential poison! "Call a warden,
Daddy!" says Harry; "he has died of black vomit, I think." And he
lays the dead body square upon the cot, turns the sheets from off
the shoulders, unbuttons the collar of its shirt. "How changed! I
never would have known master; but I can see something of him left
yet." Harry remains some minutes looking upon the face of the
departed, as if tracing some long lost feature. And then he takes
his hands-it's master's hand, he says-and places them gently to his
sides, closes his glassy eyes, wipes his mouth and nostrils, puts
his ear to the dead man's mouth, as if doubting the all-slayer's
possession of the body, and with his right hand parts the matted
hair from off the cold brow. What a step between the cares of the
world and the peace of death! Harry smooths, and smooths, and
smooths his forehead with his hand; until at length his feelings get
the better of his resolution; he will wipe the dewy tears from his
eyes. "Don't weep, Miss Franconia,--don't weep! master is happy with
Jesus,--happier than all the plantations and slaves of the world
could make him" he says, turning to her as she sits weeping, her
elbow resting on the cot, and her face buried in her handkerchief.
"Bad job this here!" exclaims the warden, as he comes lumbering into
the cell, his face flushed with anxiety. "This yaller-fever beats
everything: but he hasn't been well for some time," he continues,
advancing to the bed-side, looking on the deceased for a few
minutes, and then, as if it were a part of his profession to look on
dead men, says: "How strange to die out so soon!"
"He was a good master," rejoins Harry.
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