ough the barred windows of the
prison that contained these injured sons and daughters of America. The
clock on the calaboose had just struck nine on Monday morning, when
hundreds of persons were seen threading the gates and doors of the
negro-pen. It was the same gang that had the day previous been stepping
to the tune and keeping time with the musical church bells. Their
Bibles were not with them, their prayer-books were left at home, and
even their long and solemn faces had been laid aside for the week. They
had come to the man-market to make their purchases. Methodists were in
search of their brethren. Baptists were looking for those that had been
immersed, while Presbyterians were willing to buy fellow Christians,
whether sprinkled or not. The crowd was soon gazing at and feasting
their eyes upon the lovely features of Clotelle.

"She is handsomer," muttered one to himself, "than the lady that sat in
the pew next to me yesterday."

"I would that my daughter was half so pretty," thinks a second.

Groups are seen talking in every part of the vast building, and the
topic on 'Change, is the "beautiful quadroon." By and by, a tall young
man with a foreign face, the curling mustache protruding from under a
finely-chiseled nose, and having the air of a gentleman, passes by. His
dark hazel eye is fastened on the maid, and he stops for a moment; the
stranger walks away, but soon returns--he looks, he sees the young
woman wipe away the silent tear that steals down her alabaster cheek;
he feels ashamed that he should gaze so unmanly on the blushing face of
the woman. As he turns upon his heel he takes out his white hankerchief
and wipes his eyes. It may be that he has lost a sister, a mother, or
some dear one to whom he was betrothed. Again he comes, and the
quadroon hides her face. She has heard that foreigners make bad
masters, and she shuns his piercing gaze. Again he goes away and then
returns. He takes a last look and then walks hurriedly off.

The day wears away, but long before the time of closing the sale the
tall young man once more enters the slave-pen. He looks in every
direction for the beautiful slave, but she is not there--she has been
sold! He goes to the trader and inquires, but he is too late, and he
therefore returns to his hotel.

Having entered a military school in Paris when quite young, and soon
after been sent with the French army to India, Antoine Devenant had
never dabbled in matters of love. He v