Course follows course, of viands the most delicious, and sumptuously served.  The wine cup now flows freely, the walls reecho the coarse jokes and coarser laughs of the banqueters, and leaden eyelids, languid faces, and reeling brains, mark the closing scene.  Such is the gorgeous vice we worship, such the revelries we sanction, such the insidious debaucheries we shield with the mantle of our laws-laws made for the accommodation of the rich, for the punishment only of the poor.  And a thousand poor in our midst suffer for bread while justice sleeps.

Midnight is upon the banqueters, the music strikes up a last march, the staggering company retire to the stifled air of resplendent chambers.  The old hostess contemplates herself as a princess, and seriously believes an alliance with Grouski would not be the strangest thing in the world.  There is, however, one among the banqueters who seems to have something deeper at heart than the transitory offerings on the table-one whose countenance at times assumes a thoughtfulness singularly at variance with those around her.  It is Anna Bonard.

Only to-day did George Mullholland reveal to her the almost hopeless condition of poor Tom Swiggs, still confined in the prison, with criminals for associates, and starving.  She had met Tom when fortune was less ruthless; he had twice befriended her while in New York.  Moved by that sympathy for the suffering which is ever the purest offspring of woman’s heart, no matter how low her condition, she resolved not to rest until she had devised the means of his release.  Her influence over the subtle-minded old Judge she well knew, nor was she ignorant of the relations existing between him and the accommodation man.

On the conclusion of the feast she invites them to her chamber.  They are not slow to accept the invitation.  “Be seated, gentlemen, be seated,” she says, preserving a calmness of manner not congenial to the feelings of either of her guests.  She places chairs for them at the round table, upon the marble top of which an inlaid portfolio lies open.

“Rather conventional,” stammers Mr. Snivel, touching the Judge significantly on the arm, as they take seats.  Mr. Snivel is fond of good wine, and good wine has so mellowed his constitution that he is obliged to seek support for his head in his hands.

“I’d like a little light on this ‘ere plot.  Peers thar’s somethin’ a foot,” responds the Judge.

Anna interposes by saying they shall know quick enough.  Placing a pen and inkstand on the table, she takes her seat opposite them, and commences watching their declining consciousness.  “Thar,” ejaculates the old Judge, his moody face becoming dark and sullen, “let us have the wish.”

“You owe me an atonement, and you can discharge it by gratifying my desire.”

“Women,” interposes the old Judge, dreamily, “always have wishes to gratify.  W-o-l, if its teu sign a warrant, hang a nigger, tar and feather an abolitionist, ride the British Consul out a town, or send a dozen vagrants to the whipping-post-I’m thar.  Anything my hand’s in at!” incoherently mumbles this judicial dignitary.