"Mas'r Rosebrook's niggers," Duncan replies, firmly; "but Missus
send da order."
"Sure of that, now? Good niggers them of Rosebrook's: wouldn't a'
gin it to nobody else's niggers. Follow me-zist, zist!" he says,
crooking his finger at the other three, and scowling, as Duncan
relieves their timidity by advancing. They move slowly and
noiselessly up the aisle, the humid atmosphere of which, pregnant
with death, sickens as it steals into the very blood. "In
there-zist! make no noise; the dead debtor lies there," whispers the
warden, laying his left hand upon Duncan's shoulder, and, the
forefinger of his right extended, pointing toward the last cell on
the left. "Door's open; not locked, I meant. Left it unsecured last
night. Rap afore ye go in, though." At the methodical warden's
bidding Duncan proceeds, his foot falling lightly on the floor.
Reaching the door, he places his right hand on the swinging bolt,
and for a few seconds seems listening. He hears the muffled sound of
a footfall pacing the floor, and then a muttering as of voices in
secret communion, or dying echoes from the tomb. He has not mistaken
the cell; its crevices give forth odours pergnant of proof. Two
successive raps bring Harry to the door: they are admitted to the
presence of the dead. One by one Harry receives them by the hand,
but he must needs be told why Daddy is not with them. They know not.
He ate a morsel, and left late last night, says one of the negroes.
Harry is astonished at this singular intelligence: Daddy Bob never
before was known to commit an act of unfaithfulness; he was true to
Marston in life,--strange that he should desert him in death.
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