“Lieut.  Forgive me, sir, what I’m compelled t’ obey:  An order for
     your close confinement.

     “King H.  Whence comes it, good lieutenant?

     “Lieut.  Sir, from the Duke of Gloster.

     “King H.  Good-night to all, then!”

     SHAKSPEARE.

Connected with the estate at Bellevue, of which Jaspar Dumont was now in actual possession, was a small slave jail.  It had been constructed under the immediate direction of Jaspar, to afford a place of confinement for the runaway or refractory negroes of the plantation.  It was located at some distance from the proprietary mansion, and from the quarters of the negroes.  Jaspar’s taste in matters of this kind was of the most refined character, and he had caused it to be constructed on a plan and in a manner that would seem to bid defiance to the skill of a Baron Trenck, or a Stephen Burroughs.  The material was granite, brought at no trifling expense from the North.  There were no windows upon the sides, and only one entrance, which was secured by double iron doors.  Light and air were supplied, in meagre quantities, by means of a skylight in the roof, which was regulated by a cord passing down upon the outside.

This jail, either by accident or design, was so constructed that any noise inside was not transmitted to the outside.  Whether this was because of the reflecting properties of the walls, which might have sent the sound echoing out at the skylight on the apex of the four-sided roof, or because of some other natural causes, we shall not take up the reader’s time in discussing.  Its inmates might startle Heaven with their cries, but certainly every ear on earth below must be deaf to their wail.  This circumstance seemed typical of the actual fact of oppression; but we are sure that Jaspar never meant to typify the groans, by man unheeded, of the victims of tyranny ascending to be heard above.

It was the day after the events related in the last chapter, and the negro jail was tenanted; but not by a refractory or a runaway slave.  It was now devoted to a more dignified purpose, being occupied by a white man and his wife, the victims of Jaspar Dumont’s hatred and fears.  They had already been prisoners for the past forty-eight hours.  No sound from the wide, wide world without had reached them; and, though the man had shouted himself hoarse in endeavors to arrest the attention of any casual passer-by, the sound of his voice had risen to Heaven, but had not been heard by any mortal ear.

On a heap of dirty straw, in one corner, lay a female.  She was feeble and helpless.  By her side, gazing sadly upon her, was her companion, pale and haggard, and apparently conquered in spirit.  The sufferings of the frail being by his side seemed to pierce him to the soul.  He felt not for himself; his thoughts, his feelings, all were devoted to her, whom he had loved and respected through many vicissitudes, whose