"That's me!" cried the Jew, falling, instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!"
"Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. "Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?"
"I sha'n't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?"
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
"Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him what you want—quick if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on."
"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks."
"It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one—not one."
"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not tell a lie now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; and that there is no hope of any farther gain. Where are those papers?"
"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper to you."
"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a firm voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand.