We were sentenced late at night—nearly 10 o'clock—a smoky, foggy London night. The court was packed, the corridors crowded, and when the jury came in with their verdict the suppressed excitement found vent. But when the vindictive and unheard-of sentence fell from the lips of this villain Judge an exclamation of horror fell from that crowded court.
We turned from the Judge and went down the stairs to the entrance to the underground passage leading to Newgate. There we halted to say farewell.
BEFORE THE GOVERNOR—ASSISTANT WARDER REPORTING A PRISONER FOR TALKING.
To say farewell! Yes. The Primrose Way had come to an end, but we were comrades and friends still, and in order that in the gloom of the slow-moving days and the blackness and thick horror of the years to come we might have some thought in common, we then and there promised—what could we poor, broken bankrupts promise?
Where or to what in the thick horror enshrouding us could we turn? We had
"Nothing left us to call our own save death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones;"
nothing but a grave, that
"Small model of the barren earth,"
with dishonor and degradation for our epitaph!