"If you had a light, Timothy Splint, you would no longer think of your crimes," said the Blackamoor; "and then you would be ready to fall back into your old courses, if you had your liberty given to you once more."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the man, his frame convulsed with a horrible shudder. "I wish I had never known such courses at all: I wish I could live over again during the whole period that I've been so wicked. I am sure I should be a good man then—if so be I had all my experience to teach me to be so. I never thought it was such a shocking thing to be wicked till I came to be left alone in darkness—yes, all alone with my frightful thoughts! I would sooner be put to death at once: but—but—" he added, in a hesitating manner—"I haven't the courage to brain myself against the wall, because the spectre of the murdered baronet seems to stand by to prevent me."
"And have you, then, ever thought of suicide, since you first became a prisoner here?" enquired the Blackamoor.
"Often and often, sir—very often," exclaimed Splint, emphatically.
"You never told me this before; and yet I have visited you regularly every evening to bring you food and talk to you for a short time," said the Blackamoor.
"But you never spoke to me so kindly as you do now, sir," cried the criminal, earnestly; "and when a man has been upwards of thirty days—yes, I have counted your visits, and this is the thirty-first,—when a man, I say, has been thirty-one days all alone and in darkness, except for a few minutes every evening, he begins to feel the want of hearing a human voice—and when that voice speaks in a kind manner——"
Timothy Splint's tone had gradually become tremulous; and now he burst into tears. Yes—the villain—the robber—the murderer wept; and those were tears such as he had not shed for a long, long time!
When the river is ice-bound by the cold hand of winter it seems unconscious of the presence of the flower thrown on its impenetrable surface; but when thawed by the warm sun, and flowing naturally again, the stream opens its bosom to receive the rose-bud which it caresses with its sparkling ripples, and wafts gently along as if rejoiced at the companionship. So was it with the heart of this man; and the slightest word spoken in a kind manner was now borne on by the current of feelings thawed from a state of dull and long-enduring obduracy.
"Your crimes are manifold and great," said the Blackamoor; "but there is hope for even the vilest," he added, unable altogether to subdue a profound sigh; "and contrition is all that remains for sinful mortals, who cannot recall the past."
"I am penitent, sir—I am very penitent, I can assure you," exclaimed the man, in a tone of deep emotion. "A few weeks ago I should have been ashamed to utter such a thing; and now it does me good to say so.—And I'll tell you something more, sir," he continued, after a moment's hesitation; "though I suppose you will not believe me——"