the wide and dismal current of oblivion, and he groaned heavily and muttered, “No, no, no!” as if the very idea of death was unbearable, even for a moment; and “to die,” even to him that must, were a thing impossible, and not to be thought of or named.  And as I wrestled with the adversary that had dominion over him, he buried his shrunk and convulsed features in the covering of his miserable pallet; while his fingers twisted and writhed about, like so many scotched snakes, and his low, sick moans, made the very dungeon darker.

When I lifted him from his kneeling position, he obeyed my movement like a tired child, and again sat on the low pallet, in a state of motionless and unresisting torpor.  The damp sweat stood on my own forehead, though not so cold as on his; and I poured myself out a small portion of wine, to ward off the exhaustion which I began to feel unusually strong upon me.  I prevailed upon the poor wretch to swallow a little with me; and, as I broke a bit of bread, I thought, and spoke to him, of that last repast of Him who came to call sinners to repentance; and methought his eye grew lighter than it was.  The sinking frame, exhausted and worn down by anxiety, confinement, and the poor allowance of a felon’s gaol, drew a short respite from the cordial; and he listened to my words with something of self-collectedness—­albeit slight tremblings might still be seen to run along his nerves at intervals; and his features collapsed, ever and anon, into that momentary vacuity of wildness which the touch of despair never fails to give.  I endeavoured to improve the occasion.  I exhorted him, for his soul’s sake, and the relief of that which needed it too much, to make a full and unreserved confession, not only to God, who needed it not, but to man, who did.  I besought him, for the good of all, and as he valued his soul’s health, to detail the particulars of his crime, but his eye fell.  That dark enemy, who takes care to leave in the heart just hope enough to keep despair alive, tongue-tied him; and he would not—­even now—­at the eleventh hour—­give up the vain imagination, that the case of his companion might yet be confounded with his, to the escape of both—­and vain it was.  It had not been felt advisable, so far as to make him acquainted with the truth, that this had already been sifted and decided; and I judged this to be the time.  Again and again I urged confession upon him.  I put it to him that this act of justice might now be done for its own sake, and for that of the cleansing from spot of his stained spirit.  I told him, finally, that it could no longer prejudice him in this world, where his fate was written and sealed, for that his companion was reprieved.  I knew not what I did.  Whether the tone of my voice, untutored in such business, had raised a momentary hope, I know not—­but the revulsion was dreadful.  He stared with a vacant look of sudden horror—­a look which those who never saw cannot conceive, and which—­(the remembrance is enough)—­I hope never to see again—­and twisting round, rolled upon his pallet with a stifled moan that seemed tearing him in pieces.  As he lay, moaning and writhing backwards and forwards, the convulsions of his legs, the twisting of his fingers, and the shiverings that ran through his frame were terrible.