She almost got angry when she thought "the more you do for her, the more she complains." Then she recalled her talk the night before; of her being torn away from her mother, and sold off, tied to a dead woman, and the storm and the sharks; a feeling of the sincerest pity took the place of her first reflections, and well they did--for the next idea--Phillis' knees knocked together, and her heart beat audibly, for what was before her?
What but death! with all his grimness and despair, looking forth from the white balls that were only partially covered with the dark lids--showing his power in the cold hands whose unyielding grasp had closed in the struggle with him.

Setting his seal on brow and lips, lengthening the extended form, that never would rouse itself from the position in which the mighty conqueror had left it, when he knew his victory was accomplished.
What but death, indeed! For the heart and the pulse were still forever, and the life that had once regulated their beatings, had gone back to the Giver of life.
The two slave women were alone together.

She who had been, had gone with all her years, her wrongs, and her sins, to answer at the bar of her Maker.
The fierce and bitter contest with life, the mysterious curse, the dealings of a God with the children of men.

Think of it, Oh! Christian! as you gaze upon her.

The other slave woman is with the dead.