me, from my soul I thank you," he
said. "If you would know that I leave you in peace, give yet one solemn
assurance before I die."

"To what?"

"Promise, that they who came with me into your ship shall leave it
unharmed, and speedily."

"Promise, Walter," said a solemn, smothered voice, in the throng.

"I do."

"I ask no more.--Now, Reverend Minister of God, perform thy holy office,
near my companions. Then ignorance may profit by your service. If I quit
this bright and glorious scene, without thought and gratitude to that
Being who, I humbly trust, has made me an heritor of still greater things,
I offend wittingly and without hope. But these may find consolation in
your prayers."

Amid an awful and breathing silence, the chaplain approached the devoted
companions of Wilder. Their comparative insignificance had left them
unobserved during most of the foregoing scene; and material changes had
occurred, unheeded, in their situation. Fid was seated on the deck, his
collar unbuttoned, his neck encircled with the fatal cord, sustaining the
head of the nearly helpless black, which he had placed, with singular
tenderness and care, in his lap.

"This man, at least, will disappoint the malice of his enemies," said the
divine, taking the hard hand of the negro into his own; "the termination
of his wrongs and his degradation approaches; he will soon be far beyond
the reach of human injustice.--Friend, by what name is your companion
known?"

"It is little matter how you hail a dying man," returned Richard, with at
melancholy shake of the head. "He has commonly been entered on the ship's
books as Scipio Africa, coming, as he did, from the coast of Guinea; but,
if you call him S'ip, he will not be slow to understand."

"Has he known baptism? Is he a Christian?"

"If he be not, I don't know who the devil is!" responded Richard, with an
asperity that might be deemed a little unseasonable. "A man who serves his
country, is true to his messmate, and has no skulk about him, I call a
saint, so far as mere religion goes. I say, Guinea, my hearty, give the
chaplain a gripe of the fist, if you call yourself a Christian. A Spanish
windlass wouldn't give a stronger screw than the knuckles of that nigger
an hour ago; and, now, you see to what a giant may be brought."

"His latter moment is indeed near. Shall I offer a prayer for the health
of the departing spirit?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" answered Fid, gulping his words, a