We need scarcely tell the reader that a plan of escape had been previously arranged between Franconia and Maxwell; but why she took so earnest a part in carrying it out, we must reserve for another chapter.

Maxwell had sought the captain of this schooner, found him of a generous disposition, ready to act in behalf of freedom.  Having soon gained his confidence, and enlisted his good services, it took no great amount of persuasion to do this, his feelings having already been aroused against slavery, the giant arms of which, stretched out between fear and injustice, had interfered with his rights.  He had seen it grasp the bones and sinews of those who were born in freedom-he had seen men laugh at his appeals for justice-he had seen one of his free-born British seamen manacled and dragged to prison at noonday, merely because his skin was slightly coloured; he had been compelled to pay tribute to keep alive the oppressor’s power, to compensate the villainy rogues practise upon honest men.

“Yes!” says the captain, a sturdy son of the sea, in answer to Maxwell; “bring her on board; and with a heart’s best wishes, if I don’t land her free and safe in Old Bahama I’ll never cross the gulf stream again.”  And the mode of getting the boats ready was at once arranged.

The night was still and dark; picturesque illuminations in and around the mansion glittered in contrast with the starry arch of heaven; the soft south breeze fans to life the dark foliage that clusters around-nature has clothed the scene with her beauties.  Clotilda-she has eagerly awaited the coming time-descends to the balustrade in the rear of the mansion.  Here she meets a band of musicians; they have assembled to serenade, and wait the benediction, a signal for which will be made from one of the balconies.  She fears they may recognise her, hesitates at the entrance, paces backward and forward in the colonnade, and professes to be awaiting some message from her mistress.  Again scanning the scene, she watches intently, keeping her eyes fixed in the direction Franconia has suggested.  “I was to meet Maxwell there!” works upon her mind until she becomes nervous and agitated.  “I was, and must meet him there;” and she walks slowly back to the entrance, turns and returns, watches until her soul has nearly sickened, at length espies the joyous signal.  Franconia did not deceive her.  Oh, no! he stands there in the glare of a lamp that hangs from a willow-tree.  She vaults over the path, grasps his hand with a sister’s affection, and simultaneously the soft swelling music of “Still so gently o’er me stealing!” floats in the air, as dulcet and soul-stirring as ever touched the fancy, or clothed with holy inspiration the still repose of a southern landscape at midnight.  But she is with Maxwell; they have passed the serenaders,—­liberty is the haven of her joy, it gives her new hopes of the future.  Those hopes dispel the regrets that hover over her mind as she thinks of her child.