Servant and soldier of mankind, thy menial task of love is set, thy work is here! Purge the pollution from this wasted body, and with thy own hand, tender and skillful as a woman’s, bind up these wounds, anoint and dress these sores! For him, the lowest and the loathliest of thy brethren, are these mean toils—the meanest man can do for man. Thy free and happy country would say thou doest ill; and “ill” the snickering whinny and brute scoff from the jaws of her slavers and traders; and “ill” her hell-dog statute dragging thee to the jail and fine for helping the lorn wanderer. Thou call’st the spirit of the ages by another name than ours—thou call’st it Verulam, we call it Christ. Oh, man beloved of Christ and Verulam, thou doest well! An hour passed on and the solemn task was done. His matted hair cut off, his body clean, his wounds dressed, the fugitive, clad in a shirt and drawers of Harrington’s, a world too large for his wasted frame, was placed by the young scholar in his bed, and sitting there was fed with biscuit, and wine and water—the only food and drink accessible then. The repast ended, Harrington washed himself, put on clean clothes, arranged the room, and then turned to go down. The fugitive lay weakly sobbing. “Good night, Antony,” said Harrington, gravely, standing with the lamp in his hand, its light shining on his beautiful and bearded countenance. Suddenly, before he could be stopped, the fugitive scrambled from the bed, and flinging himself at Harrington’s feet, embraced them with his thin wrists and huge hands, and laid his head upon them. “The Lord Jesus bless you, Marster,” he sobbed in a broken and sepulchral voice, “Oh, Marster, the Lord Jesus bless you, for there’s not no such Marster as you, Marster, nowhere—Oh Marster”— Harrington stopped him by suddenly starting away to lay down the lamp, and returning, lifted him to his feet and got him into bed again. “I know all you feel, Antony,” he said, pulling the clothes over him; “but you musn’t talk to-night, poor fellow. Now go to sleep, and have a long rest, and to-morrow or the next day, we’ll talk. Good night.” “Good night, Marster,” sobbed the submissive negro. Harrington took from a nail on the wall, an old camlet cloak which had been his father’s, and seizing the lamp, went down. The first thing was to take the collar from the floor, and put it in a drawer; then untying his bundled coat and vest, he shook them out, and hung them up; then opening the door and windows, for the taint of the foul rags was still in the room, he went into the yard, and stood breathing the cool, pure air, and gazing, with a sense of boding at his heart, upon the thick hordes of stars. The night seemed all wild and alive. Something sinister and evil pervaded the atmosphere, and the dark blue spread like an astrologic scroll bright with burning cyphers and diagrams of doom.