forgive my sins through the merits of my Saviour. But for this there
can be no mercy. Why do you not speak? Do you mean to say that I am
guilty?"

"I am sure that you are innocent."

"And yet, look here. What more can be done to prove it than has been
done? That blundering fool will swear my life away." Then he threw
himself on his bed, and gave way to his sobs.

That evening he was alone,--as, indeed, most of his evenings had been
spent, and the minutes were minutes of agony to him. The external
circumstances of his position were as comfortable as circumstances
would allow. He had a room to himself looking out through heavy iron
bars into one of the courts of the prison. The chamber was carpeted,
and was furnished with bed and chairs and two tables. Books were
allowed him as he pleased, and pen and ink. It was May, and no fire
was necessary. At certain periods of the day he could walk alone
in the court below,--the restriction on such liberty being that at
other certain hours the place was wanted for other prisoners. As far
as he knew no friend who called was denied to him, though he was
by no means certain that his privilege in that respect would not be
curtailed now that he had been committed for trial. His food had been
plentiful and well cooked, and even luxuries, such as fish and wine
and fruit, had been supplied to him. That the fruit had come from
the hot-houses of the Duchess of Omnium, and the wine from Mr. Low's
cellar, and the fish and lamb and spring vegetables, the cream and
coffee and fresh butter from the unrestricted orders of another
friend, that Lord Chiltern had sent him champagne and cigars,
and that Lady Chiltern had given directions about the books and
stationery, he did not know. But as far as he could be consoled by
such comforts, there had been the consolation. If lamb and salad
could make him happy he might have enjoyed his sojourn in Newgate.
Now, this evening, he was past all enjoyment. It was impossible that
he should read. How could a man fix his attention on any book, with a
charge of murder against himself affirmed by the deliberate decision
of a judge? And he knew himself to be as innocent as the magistrate
himself. Every now and then he would rise from his bed, and almost
rush across the room as though he would dash his head against the
wall. Murder! They really believed that he had deliberately murdered
the man;--he, Phineas Finn, who had served his country with repute,
who had sa