It was not till we had pulled up, and had landed at the riverside, that I could get some comforts for Magwitch, who had received injury in the chest, and a deep cut in the head.  He told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the steamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising.  The injury to his chest he thought he had received against the side of the galley.  He added that Compeyson, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify him, had staggered up, and back, and they had both gone overboard together, locked in each other’s arms.  He had disengaged himself under water, and swam away.

He was taken to the police-court next day, and committed for trial at the, next session, which would come on in a month.

“Dear boy,” he said.  “Look ’ee, here.  It’s best as a gentleman should not be knowed to belong to me now.”

“I will never stir from your side,” said I, “when I am suffered to be near you.  Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me!”

When the sessions came round, the trial was very short and very clear, and the capital sentence was pronounced.  But the prisoner was very ill.  Two of his ribs had been broken, and one of his lungs seriously injured, and ten days before the date fixed for his execution death set him free.

“Dear boy,” he said, as I sat down by his bed on that last day.  “I thought you was late.  But I knowed you couldn’t be that.  You’ve never deserted me, dear boy.”

I pressed his hand in silence.

“And what’s the best of all,” he said, “you’ve been more comfortable along of me since I was under a dark cloud than when the sun shone.  That’s best of all.”

He had spoken his last words, and, holding my hand in his, passed away.

And with his death ended my expectations, for the pocket-book containing his wealth went to the Crown.

Herbert took me into his business, and I became a clerk, and afterwards went abroad to take charge of the eastern branch, and when many a year had gone round, became a partner.

It was eleven years later when I was down in the marshes again.  I had been to see Joe Gargery, who was as friendly as ever, and had strolled on to where Satis House once stood.  I had been told of Miss Havisham’s death, and also of the death of Estella’s husband.

Nothing was left of the old house but the garden wall, and as I stood looking along the desolate garden walk a solitary figure came up.  I saw it stop, and half turn away, and then let me come up to it.  It faltered as if much surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out, “Estella!”

I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me I saw no shadow of another parting from her.