WHILE the ceremony we have described in the foregoing chapter was proceeding, Clotilda, yielding to the earnest request of Franconia, dresses herself in garments she has provided, and awaits the commencement of the scene. A little schooner from one of the Bahama Islands lies moored in the harbour awaiting a fair wind to return.

We need scarcely tell the reader that a plan of escape had been previously arranged between Franconia and Maxwell; but why she took so earnest a part in carrying it out, we must reserve for another chapter.

Maxwell had sought the captain of this schooner, found him of a generous disposition, ready to act in behalf of freedom. Having soon gained his confidence, and enlisted his good services, it took no great amount of persuasion to do this, his feelings having already been aroused against slavery, the giant arms of which, stretched out between fear and injustice, had interfered with his rights. He had seen it grasp the bones and sinews of those who were born in freedom-he had seen men laugh at his appeals for justice-he had seen one of his free-born British seamen manacled and dragged to prison at noonday, merely because his skin was slightly coloured; he had been compelled to pay tribute to keep alive the oppressor's power, to compensate the villainy rogues practise upon honest men.

"Yes!" says the captain, a sturdy son of the sea, in answer to Maxwell; "bring her on board; and with a heart's best wishes, if I don't land her free and safe in Old Bahama I'll never cross the gulf stream again." And the mode of getting the boats ready was at once arranged.

The night was still and dark; picturesque illuminations in and around the mansion glittered in contrast with the starry arch of heaven; the soft south breeze fans to life the dark foliage that clusters around-nature has clothed the scene with her beauties. Clotilda-she has eagerly awaited the coming time-descends to the balustrade in the rear of the mansion. Here she meets a band of musicians; they have assembled to serenade, and wait the benediction, a signal for which will be made from one of the balconies. She fears they may recognise her, hesitates at the entrance, paces backward and forward in the colonnade, and professes to be awaiting some message from her mistress. Again scanning the scene, she watches intently, keeping her eyes fixed in the direction Franconia has suggested. "I was to meet Maxwell there!" works upon her mind until she becomes nervous and agitated. "I was, and must meet him there;" and she walks slowly back to the entrance, turns and returns, watches until her soul has nearly sickened, at length espies the joyous signal. Franconia did not deceive her. Oh, no! he stands there in the glare of a lamp that hangs from a willow-tree. She vaults over the path, grasps his hand with a sister's affection, and simultaneously the soft swelling music of "Still so gently o'er me stealing!" floats in the air, as dulcet and soul-stirring as ever touched the fancy, or clothed with holy inspiration the still repose of a southern landscape at midnight. But she is with Maxwell; they have passed the serenaders,—liberty is the haven of her joy, it gives her new hopes of the future. Those hopes dispel the regrets that hover over her mind as she thinks of her child.

For several minutes they stand together, listening to the music, and watching the familiar faces of old friends as they come upon the balcony in the second story. Southern life had its pleasant associations-none would attempt to deny them; but the evil brooded in the uncertainty that hung over the fate of millions, now yielding indulgence to make life pleasant, then sinking them for ever in the cruelties of a tyrant's power. It is the crushing out of the mind's force,—the subduing the mental and physical man to make the chattel complete,—the shutting out of all the succinct virtues that nurture freedom, that incite us to improve the endowments of nature, that proves the rankling poison. And this poison spreads its baneful influence in and around good men's better desires.

After watching in silence for a few moments, Clotilda gives vent to her feelings. "I should like to see old Daddy Bob once more, I should! And my poor Annette; she is celled to be sold, I'm afraid; but I must yield to the kindness of Franconia. I have seen some good times among the old folks on the plantation. And there's Aunt Rachel,—a good creature after all,—and Harry. Well; I mustn't think of these things; freedom is sweetest," she says. Maxwell suggests that they move onward. The music dies away in the stillness, as they turn from the scene to flee beyond the grasp of men who traffic in human things called property,—not by a great constitution, but under a constitution's freedom giving power. Would that a great and glorious nation had not sold its freedom to the damning stain of avarice! would that it had not perverted that holy word, for the blessings of which generations have struggled in vain! would that it had not substituted a freedom that mystifies a jurisprudence,—that brings forth the strangest fruit of human passions,—that makes prison walls and dreary cells death-beds of the innocent;-that permits human beings to be born for the market, and judged by the ripest wisdom! "Has God ordained such freedom lasting?" will force itself upon us.-We must return to our humble adventurers.

The fugitives reached the back gate, leading into a narrow lane, from whence they cross into the main street. Clotilda has none of the African about her; the most observing guardsman would not stop her for a slave. They pass along unmolested; the guardsmen, some mounted and some walking at a slow pace, bow politely. No one demands a pass. They arrive in safety at a point about two miles from the city, where the captain and his boat await them. No time is lost in embarking: the little bark rides at anchor in the stream; the boat quietly glides to her; they are safely on board. A few minutes more, and the little craft moves seaward under the pressure of a gentle breeze. There is no tragic pursuit of slave-hunters, no tramp of horses to terrify the bleeding victim, no howlings of ravenous bloodhounds,—nothing that would seem to make the issue freedom or death. No! all is as still as a midsummer night in the same clime. The woman—this daughter of slavery's vices—cherishes a love for freedom; the hope of gaining it, and improving those endowments nature has bestowed upon her, freshens her spirits and gives her life to look forward without desponding. Maxwell is her friend; he has witnessed the blighting power of slavery-not alone in its workings upon the black man, but upon the lineal offspring of freemen-and has resolved to work against its mighty arm. With him it is the spontaneous action of a generous heart sympathising for the wrongs inflicted upon the weak, and loving to see right respected.

The fair Franconia, who has just been forced to accept the hand of a mere charlatan, disclosed the secrets of her mind to him; it was she who incited him to an act which might have sacrificed his freedom, perhaps his life. But mankind is possessed of an innate feeling to do good; and there is a charm added when the object to be served is a fair creature about to be dragged into the miseries of slavery. Even the rougher of our kind cannot resist it; and at times-we except the servile opinion which slavery inflicts upon a people through its profitable issues-prompts the ruffian to generous acts.

The little bark, bound for the haven of freedom, sailed onward over the blue waters, and when daylight dawned had crossed the bar separating the harbour from the ocean. Clotilda ascends to the deck, sits on the companion-seat, and in a pensive mood watches the fading hills where slavery stains the fair name of freedom,—where oppression rears its dark monuments to for ever torture and disgrace a harmless race. She looks intently upon them, as one by one they fade in the obscure horizon, seeming to recall the many associations, pleasant and painful, through which she has passed. She turns from the contemplation to the deep blue sea, and the unclouded arch of heaven, as they spread out before her: they are God's own, man cannot pollute them; they are like a picture of glory inspiring her with emotions she cannot suppress. As the last dim sight of land is lost in the distance, she waves a handkerchief, as if to bid it adieu for ever; then looking at Maxwell, who sits by her side, she says, with a sigh, "I am beyond it! Free,—yes, free! But, have I not left a sufferer behind? There is my poor Annette, my child; I will clasp her to my bosom,—I will love her more when I meet her again. Good-bye, Franconia-dear Franconia! She will be a mother to my little one; she will keep her word." Thus saying, she casts a look upward, invokes heaven to be merciful to her persecutors,—to protect her child,—to guard Franconia through life. Tears stream down her cheeks as she waves her hand and retires to the cabin.