"I won't be long; take care of old mas'r," says Daddy, as he leaves
the cell, solicitously looking back into the cavern-like place.
It is past ten when they reach the house of Mrs. Rosebrook, the
inmates of which have retired, and are sleeping. Everything is quiet
in and about the enclosure; the luxuriant foliage bespreading a lawn
extending far away to the westward, seems refreshing itself with dew
that sparkles beneath the starlight heavens, now arched like a
crystal mist hung with diamond lights. The distant watchdog's bark
re-echoes faintly over the broad lagoon, to the east; a cricket's
chirrup sounds beneath the woodbine arbour; a moody guardsman,
mounted on his lean steed, and armed for danger, paces his slow way
along: he it is that breaks the stillness while guarding the fears
of a watchful community, who know liberty, but crush with steel the
love thereof.
A rap soon brings to the door the trim figure of a mulatto servant.
He conveys the name of the visitor to his "missus," who, surprised
at the untimely hour Franconia seeks her, loses no time in reaching
the ante-room, into which she has been conducted.
Daddy has taken his seat in the hall, and recognises "missus" as she
approaches; but as she puts out her hand to salute him, she
recognises trouble seated on his countenance. "Young missus in
da'h," he says, pointing to the ante-room while rubbing his eyes.
"But you must tell me what trouble has befallen you," she returns,
as quickly, in her dishabille, she drops his hand and starts back.
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