The boy was lying fast asleep on a rude bed upon the floor: so pale with anxiety and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has but an instant fled to heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
“Not now,” said the Jew, turning softly, away. “To-morrow. To-morrow.”
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY.
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Booty.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Punctuation errors repaired. Text across volumes sometimes spells "visitors" as "visiters." This was retained.
Page 14, repeated word removed from text. Original read (you say; it may may be. Lead)