Then they changed again.  He dreamed that he was in the convict camp, and, by an easy transition, that he was in hell, consumed with hunger, burning with thirst.  Suddenly the grinning devil who stood over him with a barbed whip faded away, and a little white angel came and handed him a drink of water.  As he raised it to his lips the glass slipped, and he struggled back to consciousness.

“Poo’ man!  Poo’ man sick, an’ sleepy.  Dolly b’ing Powers to cover poo’ man up.  Poo’ man mus’ be hungry.  Wen Dolly get him covered up, she go b’ing poo’ man some cake.”

A sweet little child, as beautiful as a cherub escaped from Paradise, was standing over him.  At first he scarcely comprehended the words the baby babbled out.  But as they became clear to him, a novel feeling crept slowly over his heart.  It had been so long since he had heard anything but curses and stern words of command, or the ribald songs of obscene merriment, that the clear tones of this voice from heaven cooled his calloused heart as the water of the brook had soothed his blistered feet.  It was so strange, so unwonted a thing, that he lay there with half-closed eyes while the child brought leaves and flowers and laid them on his face and on his breast, and arranged them with little caressing taps.

She moved away, and plucked a flower.  And then she spied another farther on, and then another, and, as she gathered them, kept increasing the distance between herself and the man lying there, until she was several rods away.

Ben Davis watched her through eyes over which had come an unfamiliar softness.  Under the lingering spell of his dream, her golden hair, which fell in rippling curls, seemed like a halo of purity and innocence and peace, irradiating the atmosphere around her.  It is true the thought occurred to Ben, vaguely, that through harm to her he might inflict the greatest punishment upon her father; but the idea came like a dark shape that faded away and vanished into nothingness as soon as it came within the nimbus that surrounded the child’s person.

The child was moving on to pluck still another flower, when there came a sound of hoof-beats, and Ben was aware that a horseman, visible through the shrubbery, was coming along the curved path that led from the gate to the house.  It must be the man he was waiting for, and now was the time to wreak his vengeance.  He sprang to his feet, grasped his club, and stood for a moment irresolute.  But either the instinct of the convict, beaten, driven, and debased, or the influence of the child, which was still strong upon him, impelled him, after the first momentary pause, to flee as though seeking safety.

His flight led him toward the little girl, whom he must pass in order to make his escape, and as Colonel Thornton turned the corner of the path he saw a desperate-looking negro, clad in filthy rags, and carrying in his hand a murderous bludgeon, running toward the child, who, startled by the sound of footsteps, had turned and was looking toward the approaching man with wondering eyes.  A sickening fear came over the father’s heart, and drawing the ever-ready revolver, which according to the Southern custom he carried always upon his person, he fired with unerring aim.  Ben Davis ran a few yards farther, faltered, threw out his hands, and fell dead at the child’s feet.