Gray. (eagerly.) I can tell you the whole—every word of it. He was sentenced to be hung in chains—another that was to suffer with him, was pardoned; so the murderer died alone. Never shall I forget the morning.—Though eighteen years ago, it is now as fresh in my memory as though it was the work of yesterday: I saw the last convulsive struggle of the murderer—nay, I assisted in rivetting the irons on the corse—’twas hung at the destined spot; but, when the morning came, the body was not there.
Gwin. Was no enquiry instituted?
Gray. Yes; it was supposed the relations of the murderer had stolen the body to give it burial: the murderer’s uncle, and wife were examined—but after a time, no further stir was made.—Curse upon the trick, it cost me my bread.
Gwin. How so?
Gray. Why I was the prison-smith—had the irons fitted the corse, it must have been cut to pieces, ’ere it could have been removed.
Gwin. Gracious heavens! your name is—
Gray. Grayling—Ned Grayling—once a sound hearted happy man, but now—come, Sir, all the inns will be full.
Gwin. (snatching the portmanteau from him.) Wretch! begone—you serve me not.
Gray. Wretch! well, granted—it is true: I am a houseless, pennyless, broken-hearted wretch! I have seen every earthly happiness snatched from me—I have sunk little by little, from an honest industrious man, to the poor crawling, famishing, drunkard—I am become hateful to the world—loathsome even to myself. You will not then suffer me to be your porter?
Gwin. No! begone.