We must leave Mr. Frank Curtis to adopt the necessary measures in order to effect his emancipation from the Bench vi the Insolvents' Court, and suppose that a month has passed since the period when the Blackamoor consigned to his dungeons Tim the Snammer, Josh Pedler, Old Death, Mrs. Bunce, her husband, and Tidmarsh.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening, when the Blackamoor, attended by CÆsar, who bore a light, entered the subterranean passage containing the doors of the cells in which the prisoners were separately retained. Wilton followed, bearing a large basket; and two more of the Black's retainers brought up the rear, one carrying a naked cutlass and the other a pair of loaded pistols in their hands.

Opening the door of the first cell, the Blackamoor took the light from CÆsar's hand, and stopping on the threshold, said, "Timothy Splint, another sun has set, and the close of another day has come. Had you been surrendered up to the justice of the criminal tribunals of your country, you would ere this have ceased to exist: your guilt would have been expiated on the scaffold."

"Oh! I would rather it had been that," exclaimed the man, in a tone which carried to the hearts of his listeners a conviction of his sincerity,—"I would rather it had been that, than this frightful lingering in utter darkness! The light, sir, is as welcome to me as food would be if I was starving," he added with profound emphasis.

"Are you afraid to be alone and in the dark?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"It is hell upon earth, sir!" cried Tim the Snammer. "What! can you ask me whether I'm afraid, when the place is haunted with dreadful spectres?"

"The spectres are created by your own guilty conscience," answered the Black, mildly but solemnly: then, advancing farther into the dungeon, so that the light fell upon the haggard countenance of the prisoner, he said, "You see that there are no horrible apparitions now; and why should they not remain here when you can enjoy the use of your eyes as well as when you are involved in darkness?"

"That is what I say to myself—that is what I am always asking myself," exclaimed Timothy Splint. "And yet I can't help thinking that he is there—the murdered man, you know—with his throat so horribly cut——Oh! yes—when I am alone and in the dark, I am sure he is there—just where you are standing now. He never moves—he stands as still as death—and his eyes glare upon me in the dark. It is dreadful—dreadful!"—and the wretched criminal hid his face in his hands.

"Are you sorry, then, that you killed Sir Henry Courtenay?" asked the Black.

"Sorry!" repeated Splint, in a thrilling—agonising tone. "I wish that I could only live the last few months over again! I'd sooner beg—go to the workhouse—break stones in the road—or even starve, than rob or do any thing wrong again! Oh! I would indeed! For I see now that though a man may only mean for to rob, he stands the chance of taking away life; and it's a horrid—horrid thing to say to one's self, 'I am a murderer!' But it's more horrid still to see the dreadful spectre always standing by one—quite plain, though in the dark—and never taking his cold eyes off his assassin."

"If you had a light, Timothy Splint, you would no longer think of your crimes," said the Blackamoor; "and then you would be ready to fall back into your old courses, if you had your liberty given to you once more."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the man, his frame convulsed with a horrible shudder. "I wish I had never known such courses at all: I wish I could live over again during the whole period that I've been so wicked. I am sure I should be a good man then—if so be I had all my experience to teach me to be so. I never thought it was such a shocking thing to be wicked till I came to be left alone in darkness—yes, all alone with my frightful thoughts! I would sooner be put to death at once: but—but—" he added, in a hesitating manner—"I haven't the courage to brain myself against the wall, because the spectre of the murdered baronet seems to stand by to prevent me."

"And have you, then, ever thought of suicide, since you first became a prisoner here?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"Often and often, sir—very often," exclaimed Splint, emphatically.

"You never told me this before; and yet I have visited you regularly every evening to bring you food and talk to you for a short time," said the Blackamoor.

"But you never spoke to me so kindly as you do now, sir," cried the criminal, earnestly; "and when a man has been upwards of thirty days—yes, I have counted your visits, and this is the thirty-first,—when a man, I say, has been thirty-one days all alone and in darkness, except for a few minutes every evening, he begins to feel the want of hearing a human voice—and when that voice speaks in a kind manner——"

Timothy Splint's tone had gradually become tremulous; and now he burst into tears. Yes—the villain—the robber—the murderer wept; and those were tears such as he had not shed for a long, long time!

When the river is ice-bound by the cold hand of winter it seems unconscious of the presence of the flower thrown on its impenetrable surface; but when thawed by the warm sun, and flowing naturally again, the stream opens its bosom to receive the rose-bud which it caresses with its sparkling ripples, and wafts gently along as if rejoiced at the companionship. So was it with the heart of this man; and the slightest word spoken in a kind manner was now borne on by the current of feelings thawed from a state of dull and long-enduring obduracy.

"Your crimes are manifold and great," said the Blackamoor; "but there is hope for even the vilest," he added, unable altogether to subdue a profound sigh; "and contrition is all that remains for sinful mortals, who cannot recall the past."

"I am penitent, sir—I am very penitent, I can assure you," exclaimed the man, in a tone of deep emotion. "A few weeks ago I should have been ashamed to utter such a thing; and now it does me good to say so.—And I'll tell you something more, sir," he continued, after a moment's hesitation; "though I suppose you will not believe me——"

"Speak frankly," said the Blackamoor.

"Well, sir—I have tried to recollect a prayer; and last night when I repeated it, I thought that the spectre gradually grew less and less plain to the view, and at all events seemed less horrible. I was praying again when you came just now—and I shall pray presently—for I know that there is some consolation in it."

"You do well to pray, Timothy," observed the Blackamoor. "Would you not like to be able to read some book?"

"If I only had a candle and a Bible, sir," exclaimed the man, speaking under the influence of feelings deeply excited but unquestionably sincere, "I think I should even yet be happy in this dreadful dungeon."

"What makes you fancy that the Bible would render you happy?" enquired the Black.

"Because I used to read it when I was a lad, and I remember that it contains many good sayings," answered Splint. "Besides, it declares somewhere that there is hope for sinners who repent; and I should like to keep my eyes fixed at times upon God's own promise. I am sure that my mind would be easier; for though I know that the promise is given, yet I feel a desire to repeat it over and over again to myself—and also to learn whether God ever forgave any one who was so bad as I am."

"You shall have a light and a book," said the Blackamoor.

"Oh! you are jesting—you are deceiving me!" cried Splint. "But that would be so cruel, sir, on your part——"

"I am not jesting—the subject is too serious to be treated lightly," was the answer: then, making a sign to Wilton to step forward, he took from the basket which that dependant carried, a lamp already trimmed and a couple of books. "There is a volume of Tales—and there is the Bible," he continued: "take whichever you prefer."

"The Bible, if you please, sir," cried Splint, eagerly, while his countenance denoted the most unfeigned joy. "I know not how to thank you enough for this kindness!"—and tears again started from his eyes.

"Had you chosen the Tales, you should not have had either book or light," said the Black.

Wilton now gave the prisoner a plate containing bread and cold meat, and a bottle of water, while CÆsar lighted his lamp; and the door was then again closed upon him.

"That man is already a true penitent," whispered the Blackamoor to Wilton. "Let us now visit his late companion in iniquity."

The party proceeded to the next cell, in which Joshua Pedler was confined, the two armed dependants stationing themselves in such a manner as to be visible to the inmate of the dungeon when the door was opened.

"Thank God! you are come again," he cried, starting up from his bed the moment the light flashed in upon him. "But why do you come with swords and pistols in that fashion?" he demanded, savagely.

"In case you should offer any resistance," answered the Blackamoor. "I do not choose to put chains upon you; and therefore I am compelled to adopt every necessary precaution when I visit you in this manner."

"I really would not harm you, sir—I would not for the world," said Pedler, in a milder tone. "You are not cruel—though severe; and I feel very grateful to you for not giving me up to justice. I hope you are not offended with me for speaking as I did: I try to be patient—I endeavour to be mild and all that——"

"What is it, then, that irritates your temper?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"My own thoughts, sir," answered Josh Pedler, bitterly. "Just before I heard the key grating in the lock, I was a thinking what a fool I have been for so many years, and how happy I might be, perhaps, if I was a labouring-man."

"You are sorry that you have been wicked?" observed the Black, interrogatively.

"And so would any one be when he comes to be locked up here in the dark," returned the man. "It is all very well when one is at liberty, and has friends to talk to, and plenty of drink; because company and gin can prevent a body from thinking. But here—here—oh! it is quite different; and my opinion is that a dark dungeon is a much worse punishment than transportation—leastways, judging by all I've heard from men which has been transported and has come home again when their time was up."

"Would you rather be transported at once, then—or remain here?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"I would sooner remain here, for several reasons," said Pedler. "In the first place, I don't want to get into bad company again; because I'm afraid I should go all wrong once more;—and, in the second place, I know that the thoughts which I have are good for me, though they're not pleasant."

"But if you could this minute join some of your old friends to drink and smoke with them, would you not gladly do so?" asked the Black.

"I scarcely know how to answer you, sir," replied Pedler, musing. "I am afraid I might—and yet I am very certain that I should be a fool for my pains. I would sooner earn an honest living somehow or another: I should like to have good thoughts——But that is impossible—impossible!" he added, shaking his head gloomily.

"Why is it impossible?" demanded the Black.

"Because a man to have good thoughts, must do something that is good," was the prompt rejoinder; "and I have been a wicked fellow for so many years. I wish I had been good; but it is too late now!"

"It is never too late to repent," said the Blackamoor.

"I know that the Bible promises that," observed Pedler; "but then people would never believe that a rascal like me could become good for any thing. Besides, after all that has happened, I don't hope for any opportunity of showing that I feel how stupid I have been to lead such a life as I have done. Who would trust me with any work? what honest person would associate with me? It's no use questioning me, sir: you see that even you yourself don't feel comfortable in visiting this place, since you come with armed people."

"If you could obtain your liberty by killing me, would you not do it?" asked the Black.

"As true as you are there, I would not harm a hair of your head!" cried Josh Pedler, emphatically. "I shudder when I think of that dreadful business down at the Cottage yonder—in fact, I can't bear to think of it. I don't say that I am actually afraid at being in the dark; but darkness causes terrible thoughts. It seems as if the mind had eyes, and couldn't shut them against particular things;—and now that I have found out this much, I should be a long time before I did a wrong deed again, even if I was turned out into the midst of London this very minute without a penny in my pocket."

"What would you do if you were set free this moment?" demanded the Blackamoor. "At the same time, do not suppose that you are about to have your liberty."

"I am not mad enough to fancy it possible," replied Josh Pedler. "But if such a thing did happen, I would go to Matilda—the gal that I spoke to you about, sir——"

"And who is now in a comfortable position," added the Black.

"Yes—thanks to your kindness," said the man; "and I should like you as long as I lived, if it was only on account of what you have done for her. But, as I was going to tell you—supposing I was set free, I would take 'Tilda with me into the country—as far away from London as possible; and then I'd change my name, and try to get work. Ah! I should be happy," he continued, with a profound sigh, "if I could only earn enough to keep us in a little hut. But don't make me talk in this way any longer: I feel just—just as if I—I was going to cry."

The man's voice became faltering and tremulous as he uttered these last words; and his lashes were moistened with tears.

"Should you feel pleasure in writing a letter to Matilda?" asked the Blackamoor, in a kind tone.

"Yes—above all things!" eagerly cried the criminal. "I am no great penman; but she could make out my scribbling, I dare say;—and it would do me good to give her some proper advice—I mean, just to let her know what my thoughts is at times. Besides, now that I'm separated from her, I find that I liked her more—yes—a good deal more than I used to fancy I did; and I should be glad to beg her forgiveness for what I made her do when I was sick and in want."

"You shall have a light and writing-materials," observed the Black.

"You are a good man—I feel that you are, sir!" exclaimed Josh Pedler, the tears now trickling down his cheeks. "If I had only fallen in with such a person as yourself, when I was young, I shouldn't have turned out as I did. But though people may never know that it is possible for a fellow like me to alter, yet altered my mind is—and I don't look on things as I used to do."

Wilton gave Josh Pedler a supply of food, a lamp, and writing-materials, the dungeon already containing a table in addition to the other necessary but plain and homely articles of furniture. The criminal was overjoyed at the indulgence shown him on the occasion of this visit: and he saw the door close upon him with feelings which seemed to have experienced a great relief.