ppearance presented a
great contrast to the time when she lived with old Mrs. Miller. Her tall
and well-developed figure; her long, silky black hair, falling in
curls down her swan-like neck; her bright, black eyes lighting up her
olive-tinted face, and a set of teeth that a Tuscarora might envy, she
was a picture of tropical-ripened beauty. At times, there was a heavenly
smile upon her countenance, which would have warmed the heart of an
anchorite. Such was the personal appearance of the girl who was now in
prison by her own act to save the life of another. Would she be hanged
in his stead, or would she receive a different kind of punishment? These
questions Clotelle did not ask herself. Open, frank, free, and generous
to a fault, she always thought of others, never of her own welfare.

The long stay of Clotelle caused some uneasiness to Miss Wilson; yet she
dared not tell her father, for he had forbidden the slave-girl's going
to the prison to see her lover. While the clock on the church near by
was striking eleven, Georgiana called Sam, and sent him to the prison in
search of Clotelle.

"The girl went away from here at eight o'clock," was the jailer's answer
to the servant's inquiries.

The return of Sam without having found the girl saddened the heart of
the young mistress. "Sure, then," said she, "the poor, heartbroken thing
has made way with herself."

Still, she waited till morning before breaking the news of Clotelle's
absence to her father.

The jailer discovered, the next morning, to his utter astonishment, that
his prisoner was white instead of black, and his first impression was
that the change of complexion had taken place during the night, through
fear of death. But this conjecture was soon dissipated; for the dark,
glowing eyes, the sable curls upon the lofty brow, and the mild, sweet
voice that answered his questions, informed him that the prisoner before
him was another being.

On learning, in the morning, that Clotelle was in jail dressed in male
attire, Miss Wilson immediately sent clothes to her to make a change in
her attire. News of the heroic and daring act of the slave-girl spread
through the city with electric speed.

"I will sell every nigger on the place," said the parson, at the
breakfast-table,--"I will sell them all, and get a new lot, and whip
them every day."

Poor Georgiana wept for the safety of Clotelle, while she felt glad that
Jerome had escaped. In vain did they try to ext