“The question is pending.  If I’m right about it-and I believe I’m generally so on such cases-it comes on before the next session, fall term,” says the gaoler, turning to M’Carstrow with a look of wonderful importance.  The gaoler, who, with his keys, lets loose the anxieties of men, continues his learned remarks.  “Notice has been served how she’s free.  But that kind o’ twisting things to make slave property free never amounts to much, especially when a man gets where they say Marston is!  Anthony Romescos has been quizzing about, and it don’t take much to make such things property when he’s round.”  The man of keys again looks very wise, runs his hand deep into the pocket of his coat, and says something about this being a great country.

“How much do you reckon her worth, my friend?” enquires M’Carstrow, exchanging a significant glance.

“Well, now you’ve got me.  It’s a point of judgment, you see.  The article’s rather questionable-been spoiled.  There’s a doubt about such property when you put it up, except a gentleman wants it; and then, I reckon, it’ll bring a smart price.  There’s this to be considered, I reckon, though they haven’t set a price on her yet, she’s excellent good looking; and the young un’s a perfect cherry.  It’ll bring a big heap one of these days.”

“We won’t mind that, just now, gaoler,” M’Carstrow says, very complacently; “you’ll let me have her tonight, and I’ll return her safe in the morning.”

“No, no,” interposes Clotilda, mistaking M’Carstrow’s object.  She crouches down on the blanket, as if shrinking from a deadly assault:  “let me remain, even in my cell.”  She draws the children to her side.

“Don’t mistake me, my girl:  I am a friend.  I want you for Franconia Rovero.  She is fond of you, you know.”

“Franconia!” she exclaims with joy, starting to her feet at the sound of the name.  “I do know her, dear Franconia!  I know her, I love her, she loves me-I wish she was my mother.  But she is to be the angel of my freedom-” Here she suddenly stopped, as if she had betrayed something.

“We must lose no time,” M’Carstrow says, informing her that Franconia is that night to be his bride, and cannot be happy without seeing her.

“Bride! and cannot prepare without me,” mutters the woman, seeming to doubt the reality of his statement.  A thought flashes in her mind:  “Franconia has not forgotten me; I will go and be Franconia’s friend.”  And with a child-like simplicity she takes Annette by the hand, as if they were inseparable.  “Can’t Nicholas go, too?” she inquires.

“You must leave the child,” is the cool reply.  M’Carstrow attempts to draw the heavy bolt that fastens the door.

“Not so fast, if you please,” the warden speaks.  “I cannot permit her to leave without an order from the sheriff.”  He puts his hand against the door.

“She will surely be returned in the morning; I’m good for a hundred such pieces of property.”