liver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to
the farthest corner of the seat he demanded to know what they wanted
there.

"Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down.

"Now, sir, tell him what you want--quick, if you please, for he grows
worse as the time gets on."

"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed
in your hands for better security by a man called Monks."

"It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one--not one."

"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not say that
now, upon the very verge of death, but tell me where they are. You know
that Sikes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of
any further gain. Where are those papers?"

"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper
to you."

"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a low voice, as he relinquished
Mr. Brownlow's hand.

"The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas
bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want
to talk to you, my dear; I want to talk to you."

"Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one
prayer--say only one, upon your knees with me, and we will talk till
morning."

"Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards
the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to
sleep--they'll believe _you_. You can get me out, if you take me so.
Now then, now then!"

"Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of
tears.

"That's right, that's right," said the Jew; "that'll help us on. This
door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don't you
mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!"

"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey.

"No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall
him to a sense of his position--"

"Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had
better leave him."

The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.

"Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster,
faster!"

The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held
him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and
then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and
rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.

A Caution to Poets.

What poets f