Mr. Romescos has satisfied his very nice judgment on the solidity of the human-flesh-property-he has put their bodies through other disgusting inspections-they belong to the trade-which cannot be told here; but he finds clean skins, very smooth, without scars or cuts, or dangerous diseases.  He laughs exultingly, orders the people to stow themselves in their clothes again, and relights his cigar.  “If it ’ant a tall lot!” he whispers to Graspum, and gives him a significant touch with his elbow.  “Bright-smooth as a leather ninepence; han’t had a lash-Marston was a fool, or his niggers are angels, rather black, though-couldn’t start up a scar on their flesh.  A little trimmin’ down-it wants it, you see!-to make it show off; must have it-eh!  Graspum, old feller?  It only wants a little, though, and them dandy niggers, and that slap-up preacher, will bring a smart price fixed up.  Great institution!  The preacher’s got knowin’; can discourse like a college-made deacon, and can convert a whole plantation with his nigger eloquence.  A nigger preacher with Bible knowin, when it’s smart, is right valuable when ye want to keep the pious of a plantation straight.  And then! when the preacher ‘ant got a notion a’ runnin away in him.”  Romescos crooks his finger upon Graspum’s arm, whispers cautiously in his ear.

“There ’ll be a sharp bidding for some of it; they ’ll run up some on the preacher.  He ’ll be a capital investment,—­pay more than thirty per cent. insinuates another gentleman-a small inquisitive looking dealer in articles of the nigger line.  When a planter’s got a big gang a’ niggers, and is just fool enough to keep such a thing for the special purpose of making pious valuable in ’um,” Mr. Romescos rejoins, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his little hawk’s eyes, and looking seriously indifferent.  Romescos gives wonderful evidence of his “first best cunning propensities;” and here he fancies he has pronounced an opinion that will be taken as profound.  He affects heedlessness of everything, is quite disinterested, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, assumes an air of dignity that would not unbecome my Lord Chief Justice.

“Let us see them two bits of disputed property,—­where are they?” inquires Graspum, turning half round, and addressing himself to the gaoler.

“In the close cells,” is the quick reply,—­“through the narrow vault, up the stone passage, and on the right, in the arched cell.”

The gaoler-good, honest-hearted man-leads the way, through a chilly vault, up the narrow passage, to the left wing of the building.  The air is pestiferous; warm and diseased, it fans us as we approach.  The gaoler puts his face to the grating, and in a guttural voice, says, “You’re wanted, young uns.”  They understand the summons; they come forward as if released from torture to enjoy the pure air of heaven.  Confinement, dreary and damp, has worn deep into their systems.