“Outside, outside,” replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!”
“Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy with a burst of tears.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Fagin. “That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!”
“Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” inquired the turnkey.
“No other question,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—”
“Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. “You had better leave him.”
The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.
“Press on, press on,” cried Fagin. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!”
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.
It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the strength to walk.