“Mas’r Rosebrook’s niggers,” Duncan replies, firmly; “but Missus send da order.”

“Sure of that, now?  Good niggers them of Rosebrook’s:  wouldn’t a’ gin it to nobody else’s niggers.  Follow me-zist, zist!” he says, crooking his finger at the other three, and scowling, as Duncan relieves their timidity by advancing.  They move slowly and noiselessly up the aisle, the humid atmosphere of which, pregnant with death, sickens as it steals into the very blood.  “In there-zist! make no noise; the dead debtor lies there,” whispers the warden, laying his left hand upon Duncan’s shoulder, and, the forefinger of his right extended, pointing toward the last cell on the left.  “Door’s open; not locked, I meant.  Left it unsecured last night.  Rap afore ye go in, though.”  At the methodical warden’s bidding Duncan proceeds, his foot falling lightly on the floor.  Reaching the door, he places his right hand on the swinging bolt, and for a few seconds seems listening.  He hears the muffled sound of a footfall pacing the floor, and then a muttering as of voices in secret communion, or dying echoes from the tomb.  He has not mistaken the cell; its crevices give forth odours pergnant of proof.  Two successive raps bring Harry to the door:  they are admitted to the presence of the dead.  One by one Harry receives them by the hand, but he must needs be told why Daddy is not with them.  They know not.  He ate a morsel, and left late last night, says one of the negroes.  Harry is astonished at this singular intelligence:  Daddy Bob never before was known to commit an act of unfaithfulness; he was true to Marston in life,—­strange that he should desert him in death.  “Mas’r’s death-bed wasn’t much at last,” says Duncan, as they gather round the cot, and, with curious faces, mingle their more curious remarks.  Harry draws back the white handkerchief which Franconia had spread over the face of the corpse, as the negroes start back affrighted.  As of nervous contortion, the ghastly face presents an awful picture.  Swollen, discoloured, and contracted, no one outline of that once cheerful countenance can be traced.  “Don’t look much like Mas’r Marston used to look; times must a’ changed mightily since he used to look so happy at home,” mutters Duncan, shaking his head, and telling the others not to be “fear’d; dead men can’t hurt nobody.”

“Died penniless;—­but e’ war good on e’ own plantation,” rejoins another.  “One ting be sartin ’bout nigger-he know how he die wen ’e time cum; Mas’r don know how ’e gwine to die!”

Having seen enough of the melancholy finale, they spread the litter in the aisle, as the warden enters the cell to facilitate the dead debtor’s exit.  Harry again covers the face, and prepares to roll the body in a coverlit brought by Duncan.  “I kind of liked him-he was so gentlemanly-has been with us so long, and did’nt seem like a prisoner.  He was very quiet, and always civil when spoken to,” interposes the warden, as, assisting the second shrouding, he presses the hand of the corpse in his own.