Rowland kept his hand on his shoulder, gently pressing it, as if to assure him of sympathy. He felt him trembling beneath his touch.
As he stood thus his eye fell on the paper that Howel had had before him when he entered the cell. He could not help seeing the words, 'From my cell in Newgate—my judge and jury.' Underneath this heading appeared to be the commencement of a poem, and beneath that were caricatures of a man in a large wig, and of others, with every variety of nose and chin.
This had been Howel's occupation within four-and-twenty hours of his conviction!
Three times Howel turned the sheet of paper that he was reading, as if he had not understood the words that were written on it, and then he uttered a groan, so deep and loud, that Rowland could restrain himself no longer, but said,—
'Howel, for her sake, listen to me, her brother. Look on me as your friend, your brother.'
Howel looked up, and for one moment there was remorse and agony in his face; the next, no stone was harder and colder.
'Brother!' he said, with a voice of icy sarcasm, 'you have shown yourself my brother of late! I saw you in the court, cold and calculating; not a word for this, your brother! Bah!'
'What would you have had me say?' asked Rowland, recovering his composure, and glancing from Howel to Netta's letter.
'I understand you; you mean that I murdered her. I did, virtually. Then why be hypocrite enough to call me brother?'
'She forgave you, and called you husband.'