CHAPTER XXI.
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All the fond visions faithful mem'ry kept, Rush'd o'er his soul; he bow'd his head and wept, Such tears as contrite sinners pour alone, When mercy pleads before the eternal throne, When naked, helpless, prostrate in the dust, The spirit owns its condemnation just, And seeks for pardon and redeeming grace, Through Him who died to save a fallen race.—S.M. |
By the light of a solitary candle, and seated at a small table in the attic of a public-house, and close to the miserable bed in which Mary Mathews was tossing to and fro in the restless delirium of fever, two men were busily engaged in dividing a large heap of gold, which had been emptied from a strong brass-bound box, that lay on the floor.
"Well, the old fellow died game," said Mathews. "Did you see how desperately he clenched his teeth, and how tightly he held the key of his treasures. I had to cut through his fingers before I wrenched it from his grasp. See, it is all stained with blood. Faugh! it smells of carrion."
"He took me for Anthony," said Godfrey, shuddering; "and he cursed me—oh, how awfully! He told me that we should meet in hell; that the gold for which he had bartered his soul, and to obtain which I had committed murder, had bought us an estate there. And then he laughed—that horrid, dry, satirical laugh. Oh, I hear it yet. It would almost lead me to repentance, the idea of having to pass an eternity with him."
"Don't feel squeamish now, man. This brave sight," pointing to the gold, "should lay all such nervous fancies to rest. The thing was admirably managed; and between ourselves, I think that, if we had not pinked him, that same virtuous son of his would. What did he want with pistols? It looks queer."
"It will condemn him."
"Let us drink to his rising in the world," said the ruffian, handing the brandy bottle to his companion in guilt. "How much money is there?"