"Mas'r's death-bed wasn't much at last," says Duncan, as they gather
round the cot, and, with curious faces, mingle their more curious
remarks. Harry draws back the white handkerchief which Franconia had
spread over the face of the corpse, as the negroes start back
affrighted. As of nervous contortion, the ghastly face presents an
awful picture. Swollen, discoloured, and contracted, no one outline
of that once cheerful countenance can be traced. "Don't look much
like Mas'r Marston used to look; times must a' changed mightily
since he used to look so happy at home," mutters Duncan, shaking his
head, and telling the others not to be "fear'd; dead men can't hurt
nobody."
"Died penniless;--but e' war good on e' own plantation," rejoins
another. "One ting be sartin 'bout nigger-he know how he die wen 'e
time cum; Mas'r don know how 'e gwine to die!"
Having seen enough of the melancholy finale, they spread the litter
in the aisle, as the warden enters the cell to facilitate the dead
debtor's exit. Harry again covers the face, and prepares to roll the
body in a coverlit brought by Duncan. "I kind of liked him-he was so
gentlemanly-has been with us so long, and did'nt seem like a
prisoner. He was very quiet, and always civil when spoken to,"
interposes the warden, as, assisting the second shrouding, he
presses the hand of the corpse in his own.
Now he is ready; they place his cold body on the litter; a few
listless prisoners stand their sickly figures along the passage,
watch him slowly borne to the iron gate in the arched vault.
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