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That little darkey is still alive. He often asked me after that if I wanted to take another trip down to "de da'k ribbah!" The prisoners who die in the penitentiary are buried in the graveyard of the institution, unless they have friends who will pay for the removal of the body. Just outside the prison walls is the cemetery. Its location is a walnut grove in a deep ravine.
"Softly stroking back my hair over this bruised temple, old Sarah says: "'Suah some one struck yo' powerful hard! P'raps dis yere purty chile 'fused his offah an' he fro' her in the ribbah. "In semi-conscious stupor and with faint sense of the meaning of this talk, I dozed on.
"Nothin' could n' been no wo'se 'n what I went frough. Kep' 'long d' ribbah, laike yo' said, but could n' git nothin' t' eat only berries growin' in d' woods. Got mighty weak, 'n' den las' night met d' Injuns." "Last night!" I cried. "Where, Polete?" "Obah dah 'long d' ribbah," he answered faintly.
Quick, tell me." He looked at me a moment longer before answering. "D' plantation? Obah dah, eight, ten mile, neah d' ribbah," and he made a faint little motion northward with his hand. The motion, slight as it was, brought on another hemorrhage. His eyes looked up into mine for a moment longer, and then, even as I gazed at them, grew fixed and glazed. Old Polete was dead.
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