“What! another pack, Mr. Birch, and so well stuffed so soon!”
“Have you not done evil enough?” cried the peddler, regaining his firmness, and springing on his feet with energy. “Is it not enough to harass the last moments of a dying man—to impoverish me; what more would you have?”
“Your blood!” said the Skinner, with cool malignity.
“And for money,” cried Harvey, bitterly. “Like the ancient Judas, you would grow rich with the price of blood!”
“Aye, and a fair price it is, my gentleman; fifty guineas; nearly the weight of that carcass of yours in gold.”
“Here,” said Katy, promptly, “here are fifteen guineas, and these drawers and this bed are all mine; if you will give Harvey but one hour’s start from the door, they shall be yours.”
“One hour?” said the Skinner, showing his teeth, and looking with a longing eye at the money.
“But a single hour; here, take the money.”
“Hold!” cried Harvey. “Put no faith in the miscreant.”
“She may do what she pleases with her faith,” said the Skinner, with malignant pleasure, “but I have the money in good keeping; as for you, Mr. Birch, we will bear your insolence, for the fifty guineas that are to pay for your gallows.”