“In the prison.  You’ll find her there!” There is little time to lose,—­a carriage is ordered, the colonel drives to the prison, and there finds the object of Franconia’s trouble.  She, the two children at her side, sits in a cell seven by five feet; the strong grasp of slave power fears itself, its tyranny glares forth in the emaciated appearance of its female victim.  The cell is lighted through a small aperture in the door, which hangs with heavy bolts and bars, as if torturing the innocent served the power of injustice.  The prison-keeper led the way through a narrow passage between stone walls.  His tap on the door startles her; she moves from her position, where she had been seated on a coarse blanket.  It is all they (the hospitable southern world, with its generous laws) can afford her; she makes it a bed for three.  A people less boastful of hospitality may give her more.  She holds a prayer-book in her hand, and motions to the children as they crouch at her feet.

“Come, girl! somebody’s here to see you,” says the keeper, looking in at the aperture, as the sickly stench escapes from the dark cavern-like place.

Nervously, the poor victim approaches, lays her trembling hand on the grating, gives a doubting glance at the stranger, seems surprised, anxious to know the purport of his mission.

“Am I wanted?” she enquires eagerly, as if fearing some rude dealer has come-perhaps to examine her person, that he may be the better able to judge of her market value.

Notwithstanding the coldness of M’Carstrow’s nature, his feelings are moved by the womanly appearance of the wench, as he calls her, when addressing the warden.  There is something in the means by which so fair a creature is reduced to merchandise he cannot altogether reconcile.  Were it not for what habit and education can do, it would be repulsive to nature in its crudest state.  But it is according to law, that inhuman law which is tolerated in a free country.

“I want you to go with me, and you will see your young missis,” says M’Carstrow, shrugging his shoulders.  He is half inclined to let his better feelings give way to sympathy.  But custom and commerce forbid it; they carry off the spoil, just as the sagacious pumpkin philosopher of England admits slavery a great evil, while delivering an essay for the purpose of ridiculing emancipation.

M’Carstrow soon changes his feelings,—­addresses himself to business.  “Are you in here for sale?” he enquires, attempting to whistle an air, and preserve an unaffected appearance.

The question touches a tender chord of her feelings; her bosom swells with emotions of grief; he has wounded that sensitive chord upon which the knowledge of her degradation hangs.  She draws a handkerchief from her pocket, wipes the tear that glistens in her eye, clasps Annette in her arms-while Nicholas, frightened, hangs by the skirts of her dress,—­buries her face in her bosom, retires a few steps, and again seats herself on the blanket.