“Can’t help that,” interrupts the gaoler, coolly.

“But, there’s my honour!”

“An article gaolers better not deal in.  It may be very good commodity in some kinds of business-don’t pay in ours; and then, when this kind of property is in question, it won’t do to show a favour beyond the rule.”

M’Carstrow is in a sad dilemma.  He must relieve himself through a problem of law, which, at this late hour, brings matters to a singular point.  He believes Franconia suffers from a nervous affection, as the doctors call it, and has fixed her mind upon the only object of relief.  He had made no preparation for such a critical event; but there is no postponing the ceremony,—­no depriving her of the indulgence.  Not a moment is to be lost:  he sets off, post-haste, for the sheriff’s office.  That functionary is well known for his crude method of executing business; to ask a favour of him would be like asking the sea to give up its dead.  He is cold, methodical, unmoveable; very much opposed to anything having the appearance of an innovation upon his square rules of business.

M’Carstrow finds him in just the mood to interpose all the frigid peculiarities of his incomprehensible nature.  The colonel has known him by reputation; he knows him now through a different medium.  After listening to M’Carstrow’s request, and comporting himself with all imaginable dignity, he runs his fingers through his hair, looks at M’Carstrow vacantly, and well nigh rouses his temper.  M’Carstrow feels, as southern gentlemen are wont to feel, that his position and title are enough to ensure courtesy and a quick response.  The man of writs and summonses feels quite sure that the pomp of his office is sufficient to offset all other distinctions.

“Whar’ d’ye say the gal was,—­in my gaol?” the sheriff inquires, with solemn earnestness, and drawling his words measuredly, as if the whole affair was quite within his line of business.  The sheriff has the opportunity of making a nice little thing of it; the object to be released will serve the profits of the profession.  “Gittin’ that gal out yander ain’t an easy thing now, ’taint!  It’ll cost ye ’bout twenty dollars, sartin,” he adds, turning over the leaves of his big book, and running his finger down a scale of names.

“I don’t care if it costs a hundred!  Give me an order for her release!” M’Carstrow begins to understand Mr. Sheriff’s composition, and putting his hand into his pocket, draws forth a dwenty-dollar gold piece, throws it upon the table.  The effect is electric:  it smooths down the surface of Mr. Sheriff’s nature,—­brings out the disposition to accommodate.  The Sheriff’s politeness now taxes M’Carstrow’s power to reciprocate.