CHAPTER XXI.

THE MINERS’ BANK.

As, though Richard had fasted long, he could not eat, so, though he was fatigued with the travel of the last two days, he could not sleep.  He turned from side to side upon his pillow throughout the weary night, and strove to lose himself, and shut out thought, in vain, even for an instant.  He got up and paced the room; and, when the streaks of dawn began to show themselves, drew up the blind, and looked forth.  It was a very different scene from that he had been accustomed to contemplate at Gethin.  In place of the waste of ocean, specked by a sail or two, whose presence only served to intensify its solitary grandeur, the thick-peopled city lay before him.  But as yet there were no tokens of waking life; the streets were empty, the windows shrouded, and a steady drizzle of rain was falling, which gave promise of a wretched day.  Even when the morning advanced, it was difficult to make out the individual buildings; but he had had the Miners’ Bank pointed out to him on the previous day, and he thought he recognized it now.  It was there that the business which he had proposed to himself was to be effected, and he gazed at it with interest.  The wisest of us are simple in some things, and though so knowing in the ways of the world—­that is, of his world—­Richard knew nothing of banks whatever, and wondered whether he would have any difficulty in carrying out his object.  He could not foresee any; it seemed to him that the banking folks would be glad to oblige him in the matter in question, since, if there was any advantage, it would be on their side.  But there were six hours yet before he could perform this business, and since sleep was denied him, how was he to pass the time?  There was a large book upon the drawers, which he had not hitherto observed, with the royal arms stamped upon it, and the name of the hotel inscribed beneath them.  It did not look like a devotional work, but it was the New Testament—­a work that was very literally new to Richard Yorke.  He had seen it, of course, often; was acquainted by hearsay with its contents, and had joked about them.  It is the easiest book in the world to make jokes upon, which, perhaps, accounts for its being so favorite a subject of ridicule with foolish persons.  Shakspeare is also easy to make fun of, but the soupcon of blasphemy is in that case wanting, which, to many, forms the chief charm of witty converse.  Richard looked at it as a dog looks at a stick; but he took it up, and opened it at random.  “Having no hope, and without God in the world.”