ite
end, which shewed us a passage, similar in extent and fashion, to the
one we had left below; at the very extremity of this was the entrance to
an apartment at which Jonson stopped.

"Here," said he, taking from his pocket a small paper book, and an
ink-horn; "here, your honour, take these, you may want to note the heads
of Dawson's confession, we are now at his door." Job then applied one of
the keys of a tolerably sized bunch to the door, and the next moment we
were in Dawson's apartment.

The room which, though low and narrow, was of considerable length, was
in utter darkness, and the dim and flickering light Jonson held, only
struggled with, rather than penetrated the thick gloom. About the centre
of the room stood the bed, and sitting upright on it, with a wan and
hollow countenance, bent eagerly towards us, was a meagre, attenuated
figure. My recollection of Dawson, whom, it will be remembered, I had
only seen once before, was extremely faint, but it had impressed me
with the idea of a middle sized and rather athletic man, with a fair and
florid complexion: the creature I now saw, was totally the reverse
of this idea. His cheeks were yellow and drawn in; his hand which was
raised, in the act of holding aside the curtains, was like the talons
of a famished vulture, so thin, so long, so withered in its hue and
texture.

No sooner did the advancing light allow him to see us distinctly, than
he half sprung from the bed, and cried, in that peculiar tone of
joy, which seems to throw off from the breast a suffocating weight of
previous terror and suspense, "Thank God, thank God! it is you at last;
and you have brought the clergyman--God bless you, Jonson, you are a
true friend to me."

"Cheer up, Dawson," said Job; "I have smuggled in this worthy gentleman,
who, I have no doubt, will be of great comfort to you--but you must be
open with him, and tell all."

"That I will--that I will," cried Dawson, with a wild and vindictive
expression of countenance--"if it be only to hang him. Here, Jonson,
give me your hand, bring the light nearer--I say--he, the devil--the
fiend--has been here to-day, and threatened to murder me; and I have
listened, and listened, all night, and thought I heard his step along
the passage, and up the stairs, and at the door; but it was nothing,
Job, nothing--and you are come at last, good, kind, worthy Job. Oh! 'tis
so horrible to be left in the dark, and not sleep--and in this large,
large