* * * * *
Black Dave had crawled into the room where Hulda partly heard these
revelations, and he entered the large closet under the concealed shaft
to the prison pen, where his groans and mental agony touched Hulda's
commiseration. She opened the trap, and crawled there too.
"Hush, Dave!" she whispered. "What makes you so miserable?"
"Missy, I'se killed a man. Dey made me do it. I'll burn in torment. Lord
save me!"
"Dave," said Hulda, "my poor father died for his offences. You can do no
more; but, like him, you can repent."
"Oh, missy, I's black. Rum an' fightin' has ruined me. Dar's no way to
do better. De law won't let me bear witness agin de people dat set me
on. How kin I repent unless I confess my sin? De law won't let me
confess."
"Confess your poor, wracked soul to me, Dave. The Lord will hear you,
though you dare not turn your face to him."
"Missy, once I was in de Lord's walk. My han's was clean, my face clar,
my stummick unburnt by liquor. I stood in no man's way; at de church
dey put me fo'ward. My soul was happy. One day I licked a man bigger dan
me. It made me proud an' sassy. I backslid, an' wan't no good to be
hired out to steady people; so de taverns got me, an' den de kidnappers
used me, an' now de blood of Cain an' Abel is on my forehead forever."
Hulda knelt by the murderer, and prayed with all her heart; not the
self-conscious, special pleading of the prayer across the hall, but the
humble prayer of the penitent on Calvary: "Lord, we, of this felon den,
ask to be with thee in Paradise.
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