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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens</title>

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<h2 id="pgepubid00053">
      CHAPTER XLVI — THE APPOINTMENT KEPT
    </h2>
<p>
      The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures
      emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step,
      was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of
      some expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along
      in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at some distance, accommodated
      his pace to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she moved again,
      creeping stealthily on: but never allowing himself, in the ardour of his
      pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from
      the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed
      in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement
      was sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off his guard by it;
      for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the piers of the
      bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he
      suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same
      distance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and
      followed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The
      man stopped too.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour
      and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried
      quickly past: very possibly without seeing, but certainly without
      noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view. Their
      appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards of such
      of London’s destitute population, as chanced to take their way over the
      bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to
      lay their heads; they stood there in silence: neither speaking nor spoken
      to, by any one who passed.
    </p>
<p>
      A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that
      burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering
      darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old
      smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull from the
      dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water too black
      to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s
      Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the
      ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the forest of shipping
      below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of churches above, were
      nearly all hidden from sight.
    </p>
<p>
      The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched
      meanwhile by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s
      tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded
      city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the chambers
      of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse
      and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.
    </p>
<p>
      The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a
      grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short
      distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight
      towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl
      started, and immediately made towards them.
    </p>
<p>
      They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who
      entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of being
      realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate. They
      halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for
      a man in the garments of a countryman came close up—brushed against
      them, indeed—at that precise moment.
    </p>
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<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0239.jpg.id-7746535579793437800.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-7746535579793437800" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      ‘Not here,’ said Nancy hurriedly, ‘I am afraid to speak to you here. Come
      away—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in
      which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughly
      asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.
    </p>
<p>
      The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey
      bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, form a
      landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the
      appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after a moment’s
      survey of the place, he began to descend.
    </p>
<p>
      These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Just
      below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left
      terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this
      point the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the
      wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be
      above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round, when he
      reached this point; and as there seemed no better place of concealment,
      and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with
      his back to the pilaster, and there waited: pretty certain that they would
      come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could
      follow them again, with safety.
    </p>
<p>
      So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy
      to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had
      been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost,
      and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or had
      resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious
      conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and
      regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and
      directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear.
    </p>
<p>
      He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely
      breathing, listened attentively.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is far enough,’ said a voice, which was evidently that of the
      gentleman. ‘I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many
      people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but
      you see I am willing to humour you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To humour me!’ cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. ‘You’re
      considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, for what,’ said the gentleman in a kinder tone, ‘for what purpose
      can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak
      to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring,
      instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I told you before,’ replied Nancy, ‘that I was afraid to speak to you
      there. I don’t know why it is,’ said the girl, shuddering, ‘but I have
      such a fear and dread upon me to-night that I can hardly stand.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A fear of what?’ asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I scarcely know of what,’ replied the girl. ‘I wish I did. Horrible
      thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has
      made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading
      a book to-night, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the
      print.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Imagination,’ said the gentleman, soothing her.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No imagination,’ replied the girl in a hoarse voice. ‘I’ll swear I saw
      “coffin” written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye,
      and they carried one close to me, in the streets to-night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There is nothing unusual in that,’ said the gentleman. ‘They have passed
      me often.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>Real ones</i>,’ rejoined the girl. ‘This was not.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the
      concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the
      blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than
      in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm,
      and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Speak to her kindly,’ said the young lady to her companion. ‘Poor
      creature! She seems to need it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as
      I am to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,’ cried the girl. ‘Oh,
      dear lady, why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks as gentle and
      as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all
      that they have lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said the gentleman. ‘A Turk turns his face, after washing it well,
      to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving
      their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn
      with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the
      Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps
      uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The
      gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You were not here last Sunday night,’ he said.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I couldn’t come,’ replied Nancy; ‘I was kept by force.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘By whom?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Him that I told the young lady of before.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the
      subject which has brought us here to-night, I hope?’ asked the old
      gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ replied the girl, shaking her head. ‘It’s not very easy for me to
      leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum
      before I came away.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Did he awake before you returned?’ inquired the gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good,’ said the gentleman. ‘Now listen to me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am ready,’ replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This young lady,’ the gentleman began, ‘has communicated to me, and to
      some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a
      fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you
      were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am,’ said the girl earnestly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to
      trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the
      secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But if—if—’ 
      said the gentleman, ‘he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted
      upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Fagin,’ cried the girl, recoiling.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That man must be delivered up by you,’ said the gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I will not do it! I will never do it!’ replied the girl. ‘Devil that he
      is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You will not?’ said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this
      answer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never!’ returned the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tell me why?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘For one reason,’ rejoined the girl firmly, ‘for one reason, that the lady
      knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise:
      and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have
      led a bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the same courses
      together, and I’ll not turn upon them, who might—any of them—have
      turned upon me, but didn’t, bad as they are.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then,’ said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had
      been aiming to attain; ‘put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to
      deal with.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What if he turns against the others?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there
      the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s little
      history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if
      the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And if it is not?’ suggested the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘this Fagin shall not be brought to justice
      without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think,
      which would induce you to yield it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have I the lady’s promise for that?’ asked the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You have,’ replied Rose. ‘My true and faithful pledge.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?’ said the girl, after a
      short pause.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never,’ replied the gentleman. ‘The intelligence should be brought to
      bear upon him, that he could never even guess.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,’ said the girl
      after another interval of silence, ‘but I will take your words.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she
      proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener
      to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and
      situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From
      the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the
      gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she
      communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the
      place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting
      observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit
      of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for the
      purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her
      recollection.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He is tall,’ said the girl, ‘and a strongly made man, but not stout; he
      has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder,
      first on one side, and then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes
      are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man’s, that you might
      almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes;
      and, although he can’t be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and
      haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of
      teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and
      covers them with wounds—why did you start?’ said the girl, stopping
      suddenly.
    </p>
<p>
      The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of
      having done so, and begged her to proceed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Part of this,’ said the girl, ‘I have drawn out from other people at the
      house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was
      covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him
      by. Stay though,’ she added. ‘Upon his throat: so high that you can see a
      part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?’ cried the gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How’s this?’ said the girl. ‘You know him!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were
      so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I think I do,’ said the gentleman, breaking silence. ‘I should by your
      description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It
      may not be the same.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took
      a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the
      distinctness with which he heard him mutter, ‘It must be he!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he
      had stood before, ‘you have given us most valuable assistance, young
      woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve
      you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing,’ replied Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You will not persist in saying that,’ rejoined the gentleman, with a
      voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and
      more obdurate heart. ‘Think now. Tell me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing, sir,’ rejoined the girl, weeping. ‘You can do nothing to help
      me. I am past all hope, indeed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You put yourself beyond its pale,’ said the gentleman. ‘The past has been
      a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such
      priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never
      grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is
      in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as
      you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to
      remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of
      our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of
      morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you
      shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates,
      and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to
      disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back
      to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old
      haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit
      them all, while there is time and opportunity!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She will be persuaded now,’ cried the young lady. ‘She hesitates, I am
      sure.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I fear not, my dear,’ said the gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No sir, I do not,’ replied the girl, after a short struggle. ‘I am
      chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I
      must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if
      you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off.
      But,’ she said, looking hastily round, ‘this fear comes over me again. I
      must go home.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Home!’ repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Home, lady,’ rejoined the girl. ‘To such a home as I have raised for
      myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or
      seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave
      me, and let me go my way alone.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is useless,’ said the gentleman, with a sigh. ‘We compromise her
      safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she
      expected already.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, yes,’ urged the girl. ‘You have.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What,’ cried the young lady, ‘can be the end of this poor creature’s
      life!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What!’ repeated the girl. ‘Look before you, lady. Look at that dark
      water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide,
      and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years
      hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do not speak thus, pray,’ returned the young lady, sobbing.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors
      should!’ replied the girl. ‘Good-night, good-night!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The gentleman turned away.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This purse,’ cried the young lady. ‘Take it for my sake, that you may
      have some resource in an hour of need and trouble.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No!’ replied the girl. ‘I have not done this for money. Let me have that
      to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I should
      like to have something—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or
      handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you,
      sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery
      which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the
      gentleman to leave her, as she requested.
    </p>
<p>
      The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.
    </p>
<p>
      The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards
      appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hark!’ cried the young lady, listening. ‘Did she call! I thought I heard
      her voice.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, my love,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. ‘She has not
      moved, and will not till we are gone.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and
      led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down
      nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the
      anguish of her heart in bitter tears.
    </p>
<p>
      After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the
      street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some
      minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances
      round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place,
      and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner
      as he had descended.
    </p>
<p>
      Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he
      was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made
      for the Jew’s house as fast as his legs would carry him.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
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<p>
<a id="link2HCH0047"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00054">
      CHAPTER XLVII — FATAL CONSEQUENCES
    </h2>
<p>
      It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of
      the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are
      silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy
      and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent
      hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and
      pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than
      like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil
      spirit.
    </p>
<p>
      He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with
      his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his
      side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought,
      he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few
      such fangs as should have been a dog’s or rat’s.
    </p>
<p>
      Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep.
      Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and
      then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick
      drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the
      table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.
    </p>
<p>
      Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme;
      hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter
      distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter
      disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection,
      and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these
      were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other
      with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every
      evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart.
    </p>
<p>
      He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take
      the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a
      footstep in the street.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘At last,’ he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. ‘At last!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and
      presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a
      bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the
      man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There!’ he said, laying the bundle on the table. ‘Take care of that, and
      do the most you can with it. It’s been trouble enough to get; I thought I
      should have been here, three hours ago.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat
      down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber,
      for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against
      each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips
      quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had
      mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and
      surveyed him with a look of real affright.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wot now?’ cried Sikes. ‘Wot do you look at a man so for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the
      air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the
      moment gone.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Damme!’ said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. ‘He’s
      gone mad. I must look to myself here.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no,’ rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. ‘It’s not—you’re not
      the person, Bill. I’ve no—no fault to find with you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you?’ said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and
      ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. ‘That’s
      lucky—for one of us. Which one that is, don’t matter.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,’ said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer,
      ‘will make you worse than me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Aye?’ returned the robber with an incredulous air. ‘Tell away! Look
      sharp, or Nance will think I’m lost.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lost!’ cried Fagin. ‘She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind,
      already.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew’s face, and
      reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat
      collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Speak, will you!’ he said; ‘or if you don’t, it shall be for want of
      breath. Open your mouth and say wot you’ve got to say in plain words. Out
      with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Suppose that lad that’s laying there—’ Fagin began.
    </p>
<p>
      Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously
      observed him. ‘Well!’ he said, resuming his former position.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Suppose that lad,’ pursued Fagin, ‘was to peach—to blow upon us all—first
      seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting
      with ‘em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that
      they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken.
      Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we’ve all
      been in, more or less—of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried,
      earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water,—but of
      his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find
      those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?’ 
      cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. ‘Suppose he did all this, what
      then?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What then!’ replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. ‘If he was left alive
      till I came, I’d grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as
      many grains as there are hairs upon his head.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What if I did it!’ cried Fagin almost in a yell. ‘I, that knows so much,
      and could hang so many besides myself!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know,’ replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at
      the mere suggestion. ‘I’d do something in the jail that ‘ud get me put in
      irons; and if I was tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in
      the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have
      such strength,’ muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, ‘that I could
      smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You would?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Would I!’ said the housebreaker. ‘Try me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t care who,’ replied Sikes impatiently. ‘Whoever it was, I’d serve
      them the same.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped
      over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes
      leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as
      if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!’ said Fagin, looking up with an expression of
      devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. ‘He’s
      tired—tired with watching for her so long,—watching for <i>her</i>,
      Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wot d’ye mean?’ asked Sikes, drawing back.
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into
      a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times,
      Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,’ said the Jew,
      pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tell yer what?’ asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That about— <i>Nancy</i>,’ said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the
      wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough.
      ‘You followed her?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To London Bridge?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where she met two people.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So she did.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who
      asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and
      to describe him, which she did—and to tell her what house it was
      that we meet at, and go to, which she did—and where it could be best
      watched from, which she did—and what time the people went there,
      which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a
      threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?’ cried Fagin,
      half mad with fury.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘All right,’ replied Noah, scratching his head. ‘That’s just what it was!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What did they say, about last Sunday?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘About last Sunday!’ replied Noah, considering. ‘Why I told yer that
      before.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Again. Tell it again!’ cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and
      brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They asked her,’ said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have
      a dawning perception who Sikes was, ‘they asked her why she didn’t come,
      last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn’t.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why—why? Tell him that.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them
      of before,’ replied Noah.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What more of him?’ cried Fagin. ‘What more of the man she had told them
      of before? Tell him that, tell him that.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where
      she was going to,’ said Noah; ‘and so the first time she went to see the
      lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she
      gave him a drink of laudanum.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hell’s fire!’ cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. ‘Let me go!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly
      and furiously, up the stairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bill, Bill!’ cried Fagin, following him hastily. ‘A word. Only a word.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was
      unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and
      violence, when the Jew came panting up.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let me out,’ said Sikes. ‘Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I
      say!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hear me speak a word,’ rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock.
      ‘You won’t be—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ replied the other.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each
      other’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the
      eyes of both, which could not be mistaken.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I mean,’ said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless,
      ‘not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned
      the lock, dashed into the silent streets.
    </p>
<p>
      Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his
      head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering
      them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage
      resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed
      starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor
      muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He
      opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering
      his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against
      it, drew back the curtain of the bed.
    </p>
<p>
      The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her
      sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Get up!’ said the man.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is you, Bill!’ said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his
      return.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is,’ was the reply. ‘Get up.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the
      candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of
      early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let it be,’ said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. ‘There’s enough
      light for wot I’ve got to do.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bill,’ said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, ‘why do you look like
      that at me!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and
      heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her
      into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his
      heavy hand upon her mouth.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bill, Bill!’ gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear,—‘I—I
      won’t scream or cry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell
      me what I have done!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You know, you she devil!’ returned the robber, suppressing his breath.
      ‘You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,’ rejoined
      the girl, clinging to him. ‘Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to
      kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you.
      You <i>shall</i> have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will
      not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s
      sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been
      true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl
      were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them
      away.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bill,’ cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, ‘the
      gentleman and that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in some foreign
      country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them
      again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to
      you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better
      lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each
      other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so—I feel
      it now—but we must have time—a little, little time!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of
      immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst
      of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon
      the upturned face that almost touched his own.
    </p>
<p>
      She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down
      from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on
      her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s
      own—and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven
      as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her
      Maker.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to
      the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club
      and struck her down.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0048"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00055">
      CHAPTER XLVIII — THE FLIGHT OF SIKES
    </h2>
<p>
      Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed
      within wide London’s bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst.
      Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that
      was the foulest and most cruel.
    </p>
<p>
      The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new
      life, and hope, and freshness to man—burst upon the crowded city in
      clear and radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended
      window, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray.
      It lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to
      shut it out, but it would stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one
      in the dull morning, what was it, now, in all that brilliant light!
    </p>
<p>
      He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and
      motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and
      struck again. Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the
      eyes, and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them glaring
      upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered
      and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again.
      And there was the body—mere flesh and blood, no more—but such
      flesh, and so much blood!
    </p>
<p>
      He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was
      hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and,
      caught by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him,
      sturdy as he was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it
      on the coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and
      rubbed his clothes; there were spots that would not be removed, but he cut
      the pieces out, and burnt them. How those stains were dispersed about the
      room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.
    </p>
<p>
      All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no, not
      for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the
      door: dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and
      carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door
      softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
    </p>
<p>
      He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing was
      visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she
      would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly
      under there. <i>He</i> knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the
      very spot!
    </p>
<p>
      The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the
      room. He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.
    </p>
<p>
      He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands
      the stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady
      of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again,
      almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across
      the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing
      the hollow by the Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and
      crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made
      along the remaining portion of the heath to the fields at North End, in
      one of which he laid himself down under a hedge, and slept.
    </p>
<p>
      Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the country, but back
      towards London by the high-road—then back again—then over
      another part of the same ground as he already traversed—then
      wandering up and down in fields, and lying on ditches’ brinks to rest, and
      starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same, and ramble on
      again.
    </p>
<p>
      Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat and
      drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most
      people’s way. Thither he directed his steps,—running sometimes, and
      sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail’s pace, or
      stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he
      got there, all the people he met—the very children at the doors—seemed
      to view him with suspicion. Back he turned again, without the courage to
      purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours; and
      once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain where to go.
    </p>
<p>
      He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the old
      place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still
      he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and still
      lingered about the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his course
      for Hatfield.
    </p>
<p>
      It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog,
      limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by
      the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the little street,
      crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the
      spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were
      drinking before it.
    </p>
<p>
      They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner,
      and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel
      of food from time to time.
    </p>
<p>
      The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring
      land, and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of
      some old man who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men
      present considering him very old, and the old men present declaring him to
      have been quite young—not older, one white-haired grandfather said,
      than he was—with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least—if
      he had taken care; if he had taken care.
    </p>
<p>
      There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The
      robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his
      corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the
      noisy entrance of a new comer.
    </p>
<p>
      This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled
      about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, wash-balls,
      harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics,
      and such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His
      entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen,
      which slackened not until he had made his supper, and opened his box of
      treasures, when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?’ asked a grinning countryman,
      pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This,’ said the fellow, producing one, ‘this is the infallible and
      invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt,
      mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric,
      cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff.
      Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains,
      pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallible and
      invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to
      swallow one cake and she’s cured at once—for it’s poison. If a
      gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square,
      and he has put it beyond question—for it’s quite as satisfactory as
      a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the
      more credit in taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one
      penny a square!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly
      hesitated. The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,’ said the fellow. ‘There
      are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery,
      always a-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast enough, though the
      men work so hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly,
      with twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty
      for twins. One penny a square! Two half-pence is all the same, and four
      farthings is received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains,
      fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains,
      mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in
      company, that I’ll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hah!’ cried Sikes starting up. ‘Give that back.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll take it clean out, sir,’ replied the man, winking to the company,
      ‘before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the
      dark stain upon this gentleman’s hat, no wider than a shilling, but
      thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain,
      beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or
      blood-stain—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the
      table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.
    </p>
<p>
      With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened
      upon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not
      followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen
      fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps
      of a stage-coach that was standing in the street, was walking past, when
      he recognised the mail from London, and saw that it was standing at the
      little post-office. He almost knew what was to come; but he crossed over,
      and listened.
    </p>
<p>
      The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man,
      dressed like a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a
      basket which lay ready on the pavement.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s for your people,’ said the guard. ‘Now, look alive in there, will
      you. Damn that ‘ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last; this won’t do,
      you know!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Anything new up in town, Ben?’ asked the game-keeper, drawing back to the
      window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, nothing that I knows on,’ replied the man, pulling on his gloves.
      ‘Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way,
      but I don’t reckon much upon it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, that’s quite true,’ said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of
      the window. ‘And a dreadful murder it was.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Was it, sir?’ rejoined the guard, touching his hat. ‘Man or woman, pray,
      sir?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A woman,’ replied the gentleman. ‘It is supposed—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now, Ben,’ replied the coachman impatiently.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Damn that ‘ere bag,’ said the guard; ‘are you gone to sleep in there?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Coming!’ cried the office keeper, running out.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Coming,’ growled the guard. ‘Ah, and so’s the young ‘ooman of property
      that’s going to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give
      hold. All ri—ight!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.
    </p>
<p>
      Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had
      just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go.
      At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield
      to St. Albans.
    </p>
<p>
      He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into
      the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping
      upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance
      or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but
      these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that
      morning’s ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow
      in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff
      and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling
      in the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry.
      If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not running
      too: that would have been a relief: but like a corpse endowed with the
      mere machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never
      rose or fell.
    </p>
<p>
      At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this
      phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his
      head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind
      him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now—always.
      He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him,
      visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on
      his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a
      living grave-stone, with its epitaph in blood.
    </p>
<p>
      Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence
      must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute
      of that agony of fear.
    </p>
<p>
      There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night.
      Before the door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark
      within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He <i>could
      not</i> walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretched himself
      close to the wall—to undergo new torture.
    </p>
<p>
      For now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that
      from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so
      glassy, that he had better borne to see them than think upon them,
      appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving
      light to nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut
      out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object—some,
      indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents
      from memory—each in its accustomed place. The body was in <i>its</i>
      place, and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and
      rushed into the field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered
      the shed, and shrunk down once more. The eyes were there, before he had
      laid himself along.
    </p>
<p>
      And here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in
      every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly
      there arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the
      roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that
      lonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something
      to him. He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal
      danger; and springing to his feet, rushed into the open air.
    </p>
<p>
      The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks,
      and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the
      atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction
      where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and
      he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell,
      the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined round
      some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise
      increased as he looked. There were people there—men and women—light,
      bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted onward—straight,
      headlong—dashing through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence
      as madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him.
    </p>
<p>
      He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro,
      some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others
      driving the cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming laden
      from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling
      down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an
      hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into
      the burning well; the molten lead and iron poured down, white hot, upon
      the ground. Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other
      with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the
      spurting and hissing of the water as it fell upon the blazing wood, added
      to the tremendous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying
      from memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng. Hither
      and thither he dived that night: now working at the pumps, and now
      hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself
      wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the
      roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight,
      under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great
      fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor
      bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only
      smoke and blackened ruins remained.
    </p>
<p>
      This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the
      dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for
      the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of
      their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they
      drew off, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine where some men
      were seated, and they called to him to share in their refreshment. He took
      some bread and meat; and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen,
      who were from London, talking about the murder. ‘He has gone to
      Birmingham, they say,’ said one: ‘but they’ll have him yet, for the scouts
      are out, and by to-morrow night there’ll be a cry all through the
      country.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then
      lay down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He
      wandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear
      of another solitary night.
    </p>
<p>
      Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,’ he thought. ‘A good
      hiding-place, too. They’ll never expect to nab me there, after this
      country scent. Why can’t I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt
      from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I’ll risk it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least
      frequented roads began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within
      a short distance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a
      circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he had
      fixed on for his destination.
    </p>
<p>
      The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be
      forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This
      might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved
      to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond: picking up a heavy
      stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.
    </p>
<p>
      The animal looked up into his master’s face while these preparations were
      making; whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or
      the robber’s sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked a
      little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly
      along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to
      call him, he stopped outright.
    </p>
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