We must leave Mr. Frank Curtis to adopt the necessary measures in order to effect his emancipation from the Bench viâ the Insolvents' Court, and suppose that a month has passed since the period when the Blackamoor consigned to his dungeons Tim the Snammer, Josh Pedler, Old Death, Mrs. Bunce, her husband, and Tidmarsh.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening, when the Blackamoor, attended by Cæsar, who bore a light, entered the subterranean passage containing the doors of the cells in which the prisoners were separately retained. Wilton followed, bearing a large basket; and two more of the Black's retainers brought up the rear, one carrying a naked cutlass and the other a pair of loaded pistols in their hands.
Opening the door of the first cell, the Blackamoor took the light from Cæsar's hand, and stopping on the threshold, said, "Timothy Splint, another sun has set, and the close of another day has come. Had you been surrendered up to the justice of the criminal tribunals of your country, you would ere this have ceased to exist: your guilt would have been expiated on the scaffold."
"Oh! I would rather it had been that," exclaimed the man, in a tone which carried to the hearts of his listeners a conviction of his sincerity,—"I would rather it had been that, than this frightful lingering in utter darkness! The light, sir, is as welcome to me as food would be if I was starving," he added with profound emphasis.
"Are you afraid to be alone and in the dark?" enquired the Blackamoor.
"It is hell upon earth, sir!" cried Tim the Snammer. "What! can you ask me whether I'm afraid, when the place is haunted with dreadful spectres?"
"The spectres are created by your own guilty conscience," answered the Black, mildly but solemnly: then, advancing farther into the dungeon, so that the light fell upon the haggard countenance of the prisoner, he said, "You see that there are no horrible apparitions now; and why should they not remain here when you can enjoy the use of your eyes as well as when you are involved in darkness?"
"That is what I say to myself—that is what I am always asking myself," exclaimed Timothy Splint. "And yet I can't help thinking that he is there—the murdered man, you know—with his throat so horribly cut——Oh! yes—when I am alone and in the dark, I am sure he is there—just where you are standing now. He never moves—he stands as still as death—and his eyes glare upon me in the dark. It is dreadful—dreadful!"—and the wretched criminal hid his face in his hands.
"Are you sorry, then, that you killed Sir Henry Courtenay?" asked the Black.
"Sorry!" repeated Splint, in a thrilling—agonising tone. "I wish that I could only live the last few months over again! I'd sooner beg—go to the workhouse—break stones in the road—or even starve, than rob or do any thing wrong again! Oh! I would indeed! For I see now that though a man may only mean for to rob, he stands the chance of taking away life; and it's a horrid—horrid thing to say to one's self, 'I am a murderer!' But it's more horrid still to see the dreadful spectre always standing by one—quite plain, though in the dark—and never taking his cold eyes off his assassin."