The palace and
the cell are alike to him; the sharp edge of his unseen sword spares
neither the king in his purple robe, nor the starving beggar who
seeks a crust at his palace gate,--of all places the worst.
As morning dawns, and soft fleeting clouds tinge the heavens with
light, four negroes may be seen sitting at the prison gate, a litter
by their side, now and then casting silent glances upward, as if
contemplating the sombre wall that frowns above their heads,
enclosing the prison. The guard, armed to the teeth, have passed and
repassed them, challenged and received their answer, and as often
examined their passes. They-the negroes-have come for a dead man.
Guardmen get no fees of dead men,--the law has no more demands to
serve: they wish the boys much joy with their booty, and pass on.
Six o'clock arrives; the first bell rings; locks, bolts, and bars
clank in ungrateful medley; rumbling voices are heard within the
hollow-sounding aisles; whispers from above chime ominously with the
dull shuffle rumbling from below. "Seven more cases,--how it rages!"
grumbles a monotonous voice, and the gate opens at the warden's
touch. "Who's here?" he demands, with stern countenance unchanged,
as he shrugs his formidable shoulders. "I see, (he continues,
quickly), you have come for the dead debtor. Glad of it, my good
fellow; this is the place to make dead men of debtors. Brought an
order, I s'pose?" Saying "follow me," he turns about, hastens to the
vestibule, receives the order from the hand of Duncan, the chief
negro, reads it with grave attention, supposes it is all straight,
and is about to show him the cell where the body lays, and which he
is only too glad to release.
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