The words he had been listening to had a visible effect upon his superstitious, ignorant mind.
“It be a blessing to hear ’ee talk,” he murmured.
“Has your mother paid you a visit?” inquired Patty.
“Yes, she war the first to coom. I ha’ seen her,” said the culprit, in a softened tone.
“I’m glad of it,” said Patty. “You will not be angry with me if I ask you something?” she added.
“Angry with you?”
She hesitated, and then said—
“If I ask you whether you do fear the tribunal which awaits you in the other world.”
“Fear!” he cried, in a husky voice. “What wretch is there condemned to death who does not quake at the sound of his own voice—who does not shudder at his own thoughts? When pepple are wi’ me, though they be my gaolers, when the sun shines upon me, though it be wi’ only one pale ray, I feel that I can look the worst in the face, but when I be alone, and in darkness——” He paused, as an icy tremour ran through his frame. “I could silence the turnkeys both by words and a bold front, but I cannot silence my own conscience—that’s not possible. Night arter night I reproach myself for my crime. Night arter night a band o’ pale specters, the witch at their head, flit past me, and point at me wi’ their thin bony fingers, and reproach me wi’ their red and sunken eyes. Oh, it is horrible, surely.”
“And do you never pray to be released from these dreams which come from remorse?” said Patty Jamblin.