As morning dawns, and soft fleeting clouds tinge the heavens with light, four negroes may be seen sitting at the prison gate, a litter by their side, now and then casting silent glances upward, as if contemplating the sombre wall that frowns above their heads, enclosing the prison.  The guard, armed to the teeth, have passed and repassed them, challenged and received their answer, and as often examined their passes.  They-the negroes-have come for a dead man.  Guardmen get no fees of dead men,—­the law has no more demands to serve:  they wish the boys much joy with their booty, and pass on.

Six o’clock arrives; the first bell rings; locks, bolts, and bars clank in ungrateful medley; rumbling voices are heard within the hollow-sounding aisles; whispers from above chime ominously with the dull shuffle rumbling from below.  “Seven more cases,—­how it rages!” grumbles a monotonous voice, and the gate opens at the warden’s touch.  “Who’s here?” he demands, with stern countenance unchanged, as he shrugs his formidable shoulders.  “I see, (he continues, quickly), you have come for the dead debtor.  Glad of it, my good fellow; this is the place to make dead men of debtors.  Brought an order, I s’pose?” Saying “follow me,” he turns about, hastens to the vestibule, receives the order from the hand of Duncan, the chief negro, reads it with grave attention, supposes it is all straight, and is about to show him the cell where the body lays, and which he is only too glad to release.  “Hold a moment!” Mr. Winterflint—­such is his name—­says.  Heaven knows he wants to get rid of the dead debtor; but the laws are so curious, creditors are so obdurate, and sheriffs have such a crooked way of doing straight things, that he is in the very bad position of not knowing what to do.  Some document from the sheriff may be necessary; perhaps the creditors must agree to the compromise.  He forgets that inexorable Death, as he is vulgarly styled, has forced a compromise:  creditors must now credit “by decease.”  Upon this point, however, he must be satisfied by his superior.  He now wishes Mr. Brien Moon would evince more exactness in holding inquests, and less anxiety for the fees.  Mr. Winterflint depends not on his own decisions, where the laws relating to debtors are so absurdly mystical.  “Rest here, boy,” he says; “I won’t be a minute or two,—­must do the thing straight.”  He seeks the presence of that extremely high functionary, the gaoler (high indeed wherever slavery rules), who, having weighed the points with great legal impartiality, gives it as his most distinguished opinion that no order of release from the high sheriff is requisite to satisfy the creditors of his death:  take care of the order sent, and make a note of the niggers who take him away, concludes that highly important gentleman, as comfortably his head reclines on soft pillow.  To this end was Mr. Moon’s certificate essential.

Mr. Winterflint returns; enquires who owns the boys.