*

threats - extended to their lives and all that they possessed. They were assembled for their own protection and could not endanger themselves by lending any aid to him. This they told him, not without hesitation and regret, as they kept aloof in the moonlight and glanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with his head drooping on his breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved nor spoke..! Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowing how to do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, Mr. Haredale besought them that at least they would leave him free to act for himself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair of horses that the place afforded. This was not acceded to without some difficulty, but in the end they told him to do what he would, and to go away from them, in heaven's name noob d quien, em Leaving the sexton at the horse's bridle he drew sout the chaise with his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that the postboy of the village a soft-hearted, good-for nothing, vagabond kind of fellow was moved by

"

his earnestness and passion, and, throwing down a pitchfork with which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cut him into mince-meat if they liked, but he would not stand by and see an honest gentleman who had done no wrong, reduced to such extremity, without doing what he could to help him!

"

Mr. Haredale shook him warmly by the hand, and thanked him from his heart:Im five minutes time the chaise was ready and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murderer was put inside the blinds were drawn up the sexton took his seat upon the bar, Mr. Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door; and so they started in the dead ofonight, and in profound silence for Londonbus

The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had escaped the flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. They passed them on the road, browzing on the stunted grass and the driver told them that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, but had been driven awayyolest they should bring the vengeance of the crowd on any of the inhabitantshod s bas,arstoix odi yd bodinaong asW

Nor was the feeling confined to such small places, where the people were timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London, they met, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor catholic family who, terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, were quitting the city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart or horse for the removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leave them behind, at the mercy of the crowd. Near Mileend they passed a house, the master of which, a catholic gentle man of small means, having hired a waggon to remove his furniture by midnight, had had it all brought down into the street, to wait the vehicle's arrival, and save time in the packing But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmed by the fires that night, and by the sight of the riotė ers passing his door, had refused to keep it; and the poor gentleman, with his wife and servant and their little children, were sitting, trembling among their goods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowing where to turn or what to do. gton fol-bery

It was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. The panic was so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid to carry passengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the drivers knew them, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not take them, no, though they of fered large sums; and yesterday, people had been afraid to recognise catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest they should be marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, in consequence...One mild old man a priest, whose chapel was destroyed; a very feeble, patient, inoffensive creature who wash, trudging away, alone, designing to walk some distance from town, and then try his fortune with the coaches, told Mr. Haredale that he feared he might not find a magistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner to jail on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouraging accounts they went on, and reached the magistrate's soon after sunrise. od 1d tod a 9% iz edi of boysbue# bed stand no Fielding as it had been pretty generally rumoured, was proscribed by the rioters, and a body of thief-takers had

been keeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr. Haredale stated his business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warrant his arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience.

No time was lost in committing the murderer to Newgate; then a new building, recently completed at a vast expense, and considered to be of enormous strength. The warrant being made out, three of the thief-takers bound him afresh (he had been struggling, it seemed, in the chaise, and had loosened his manacles); gagged him, lest they should meet with any of the mob, and he should call to them for help ; and seated themselves, along with him, in the carriage. These men being all well armed, made a formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though the carriage were empty, and directed Mr. Haredale to ride forward, that he might not attract attention by seeming to belong to it.

The wisdom of this proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as they hurried through the city they passed among several groups of men, who, if they had not supposed the chaise to be quite empty, would certainly have stopped it. But those within keeping quite close, and the driver tarrying to be asked no questions, they reached the prison without interruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within its gloomy walls, in a twinkling.

With eager eyes and strained attention, Mr. Haredale saw him chained, and locked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he had left the jail, and stood in the free street, without, he felt the iron plates upon the doors, with his hands, drew them over the stone wall, to assure himself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, and rough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, and glanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the bright morning, that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he was tortured by anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itself was but another bead in the long rosary of his regrets.

VOL. II.

43

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH.

The prisoner, left to himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, remained in that attitude for hours. It would be hard to say, of what nature his reflections were. They had no distinctness, and, saving for some flashes now and then, no reference to his condition or the train of circumstances by which it had been brought about. The cracks in the pavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall where stone was joined to stone, the bars in the window, the iron ring upon the floor, such things as these, subsiding strangely into one another, and awakening an indescribable kind of interest and amusement, engrossed his whole mind; and although at the bottom of his every thought there was an uneasy sense of guilt, and dread of death, he felt no more than that vague consciousness of it, which a sleeper has of pain. It pursues him through his dreams, gnaws at the heart of all his fancied pleasures, robs the banquet of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes happiness itself unhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom without shape, or form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but having no existence; recognizable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or touched, or met with face to face, until the sleep is past, and waking agony returns.

After a long time, the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw the blind man enter; and relapsed into his former position.

Guided by his breathing, the visitor advanced to where he sat; and stopping beside him, and stretching out his hand to assure himself that he was right, remained, for a good space, silent.

This is bad, Rudge. This is bad," said he at length. The prisoner shuffled with his feet upon the ground in turning his body from him, but made no other answer.

How were you taken?» he asked. «And where were you? You never told me more than half your secret. No matter;

I know it now. How was it, and where, eh? he asked again, coming still nearer to him.

At Chigwell, said the other.

At Chigwell! How came you there?»

Because I went there, to avoid the man I stumbled on, » he answered. « Because I was chased and driven there, by him and Fate. Because I was urged to go there, by something stronger than my own will. When I found him watching in the house she used to live in, night after night, I knew I never could escape him- never! and when I heard the Bell

He shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and down the narrow cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old posture.

You were saying,» said the blind man, after another pause, that when you heard the Bell- »

Let it be, will you?» he retorted in a hurried voice. hangs there yet."

The blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him, but he continued to speak, without noticing him.

"I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I have been so hunted and beset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety lay in joining them. They had gone on before; I followed them, when it left off. »

"When what left off? »

« The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped that some of them might be still lingering among the ruins, and was searching for them when I heard. he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve- «his voice. » Saying what?.

«No matter what. I don't know. I was then at the foot of the turret, where I did the—»

Ay," said the blind man, nodding his head with perfect composure, I understand. »

I climbed the stair, or so much of it was left; meaning to hide till he had gone. But he heard me; and followed almost as soon as I set foot upon the ashes."