through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was ghastly pale, yet full
of determination. He had begged one of the sailors to go to his mother's
house and ask her not to meet him. He said the sight of her distress would
take from him all self-control. She yearned to see him, and she went; but
she screened herself in the crowd, that it might be as her child had said.

We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for years,
and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the jail door for my
grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we entered the cell not
a sound broke the stillness. "Benjamin, Benjamin!" whispered my
grandmother. No answer. "Benjamin!" she again faltered. There was a jingle
of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the
bars of the window. We knelt down and took Benjamin's cold hands in ours.
We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and Benjamin's lips were unsealed; for
his mother was weeping on his neck. How vividly does memory bring back that
sad night! Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon for the
suffering he had caused her. She said she had nothing to forgive; she could
not blame his desire for freedom. He told her that when he was captured, he
broke away, and was about casting himself into the river, when thoughts of
_her_ came over him, and he desisted. She asked if he did not also think of
God. I fancied I saw his face grow fierce in the moonlight. He answered,
"No, I did not think of him. When a man is hunted like a wild beast he
forgets there is a God, a heaven. He forgets every thing in his struggle to
get beyond the reach of the bloodhounds."

"Don't talk so, Benjamin," said she. "Put your trust in God. Be humble, my
child, and your master will forgive you."

"Forgive me for _what_, mother? For not letting him treat me like a dog?
No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him for nothing