asm by which he
was startled and oppressed. The horrible impress of naked and
hardened villany--the light and mirthful delirium of crime--the wanton
manifestations of vice, in all its shapes, and the unblushing front of
debauchery and profligacy--constituted, when brought together in one
hideous group, a sight which made his heart groan for human nature on
the one hand, and the corruption of human law on the other.

"The contamination of vice here," said he to himself, "is so
concentrated and deadly, that innocence or virtue could not long resist
its influence. Alas! alas!"

Old Dunphy now made his appearance; but he had scarcely time to shake
hands with the priest, when he heard himself addressed from between the
bars of Gray's limbo, with the words,

"I say, old Corbet, or Dunphy, or whatever the devil they call you;
here's a relation of yours by the mother's side only, you old dog--mark
that; here I am, Ambrose Gray, a gentleman in disguise, as you well
know; and I want you to bail me out."

"An' a respectable way you ax it," said Dunphy, putting on his
spectacles, and looking at him through the bars.

"Respect! What, to a beggarly old huckster and kidnapper! Why, you
penurious slicer of musty bacon--you iniquitous dealer in light
weights--what respect are you entitled to from me? You know who I
am--and you must bail me. Otherwise never expect, when the time comes,
that I shall recognize you as a base relative, or suffer you to show
your ferret face in my presence."

"Ah!" exclaimed the old man, bitterly; "the blood is in you."

"Eight, my old potatomonger; as true as gospel, and a great deal truer.
The blood is in me."

"Ay," replied the other, "the blood of the oppressor--the blood of the
villain--the blood of the unjust tyrant is in you, and nothing else. If
you had his power, you'd be what he is, and maybe, worse, if the thing
was possible. Now, listen; I'll make the words you just said to me the
bitterest and blackest to yourself that you ever spoke. That's the last
information I have for you; and as I know that you're just where you
ought to be, among the companions you are fit for, there I leave you."

He then turned toward the priest, and left Gray to get bail where he
might.

When Skipton, the messenger, who returned with Dunphy, or Corbet, as we
shall in future call him, entered the watch-house, he drew Darby aside,
and held some private conversation with him, of which it was evident
that Corbe