“Good by, mas’r:  may God bless ’um!  Ther’s a place fo’h old mas’r yet.  I’ll com t’ see mas’r every night,” says the old man, his words flowing from the bounty of his heart.  He turns away reluctantly, draws his hand from Marston’s, heaves a sigh, and repairs to his labour.  How precious was that labour of love, wherein the old slave toils that he may share the proceeds with his master!

As Marston and the sheriff disappear through the gate, and are about to ascend the large stone steps leading to the portal in which is situated the inner iron gate opening into the debtors’ ward, the sheriff made a halt, and, placing his arm in a friendly manner through Marston’s, enquires, “Anything I can do for you?  If there is, just name it.  Pardon my remark, sir, but you will, in all probability, take the benefit of the act; and, as no person seems willing to sign your bail, I may do something to relieve your wants, in my humble way.”  Marston shakes his head; the kindness impedes an expression of his feelings.  “A word of advice from me, however, may not be without its effect, and I will give it you; it is this:—­Your earnestness to save those two children, and the singular manner in which those slave drudges of Graspum produced the documentary testimony showing them property, has created wondrous suspicion about your affairs.  I will here say, Graspum’s no friend of yours; in fact, he’s a friend to nobody but himself; and even now, when questioned on the manner of possessing all your real estate, he gives out insinuations, which, instead of exonerating you, create a still worse impression against you.  His conversation on the matter leaves the inference with your creditors that you have still more property secreted.  Hence, mark me! it behoves you to keep close lips.  Don’t let your right hand know what your left does,” continues the officer, in a tone of friendliness.  They ascend to the iron gate, look through the grating.  The officer, giving a whistle, rings the bell by touching a spring in the right-hand wall.  “My lot at last!” exclaims Marston.  “How many poor unfortunates have passed this threshold-how many times the emotions of the heart have burst forth on this spot-how many have here found a gloomy rest from their importuners-how many have here whiled away precious time in a gloomy cell, provided for the punishment of poverty!” The disowned man, for such he is, struggles to retain his resolution; fain would he, knowing the price of that resolution, repress those sensations threatening to overwhelm him.

The brusque gaoler appears at the iron gate; stands his burly figure in the portal; nods recognition to the officer; swings back the iron frame, as a number of motley prisoners gather into a semicircle in the passage.  “Go back, prisoners; don’t stare so at every new comer,” says the gaoler, clearing the way with his hands extended.

One or two of the locked-up recognise Marston.  They lisp strange remarks, drawn forth by his appearance in charge of an officer.  “Big as well as little fish bring up here,” ejaculates one.