How they stole the preacher.

The scenes we have described in the foregoing chapter have not yet been brought to a close.  In and about the tavern may be seen groups of men, in the last stage of muddled mellowness, the rank fumes of bad liquor making the very air morbid.  Conclaves of grotesque figures are seated in the veranda and drinking-room, breaking the midnight stillness with their stifled songs, their frenzied congratulations, their political jargon; nothing of fatal consequence would seem to have happened.

“Did master send for me?  You’ve risen from a rag shop, my man!” interrupts the physician.

“Master there-sorry to see him sick-owns me.”  Harry cast a subdued look on the bed where lay his late purchaser.

Harry’s appearance is not the most prepossessing,—­he might have been taken for anything else but a minister of the gospel; though the quick eye of the southerner readily detected those frank and manly features which belong to a class of very dark men who exhibit uncommon natural genius.

At the sound of Harry’s voice, M’Fadden makes an effort to raise himself on his elbow.  The loss of blood has so reduced his physical power that his effort is unsuccessful.  He sinks back, prostrate,—­requests the physician to assist him in turning over.  He will face his preacher.  Putting out his hand, he embraces him cordially,—­motions him to be seated.

The black preacher, that article of men merchandise, takes a seat at the bed-side, while the man of medicine withdraws to the table.  The summons is as acceptable to Harry as it is strange to the physician, who has never before witnessed so strange a scene of familiarity between slave and master.  All is silent for several minutes.  Harry looks at his master, as if questioning the motive for which he is summoned into his presence; and still he can read the deep anxiety playing upon M’Fadden’s distorted countenance.  At length, Harry, feeling that his presence may be intrusive, breaks the silence by enquiring if there is anything he can do for master.  Mr. M’Fadden whispers something, lays his trembling hand on Harry’s, casts a meaning glance at the physician, and seems to swoon.  Returning to his bed-side, the physician lays his hand upon the sick man’s brow; he will ascertain the state of his system.

“Give-him-his-Bible,” mutters the wounded man, pointing languidly to the table.  “Give it to him that he may ask God’s blessing for me-for me-for me,—­”

The doctor obeys his commands, and the wretch, heart bounding with joy, receives back his inspiring companion.  It is dear to him, and with a smile of gratitude invading his countenance he returns thanks.  There is pleasure in that little book.  “And now, Harry, my boy,” says M’Fadden, raising his hand to Harry’s shoulder, and looking imploringly in his face as he regains strength; “forgive what I have done.  I took from you that which was most dear to your feelings; I took it from you when the wounds of your heart were gushing with grief-” He makes an effort to say more, but his voice fails; he will wait a few moments.