“Well, sir,” replied Cummiskey, “it’s one comfort that he won’t hang by himself.”

“No,” said the other, “he and the Rapparee will stretch the same rope.”

“The Rapparee! faith, sir, hell have worse company.”

“What do you mean, sirra?”

“Why, Sir Robert Whitecraft, sir; he always had gallows written in his face; but, upon my soul, he’ll soon have it about his neck, please God.”

“Faith, I’m afraid you are not far from the truth, Cummiskey,” replied his master; “however, I am going to make arrangements with him, to see what can be done for the unfortunate man.”

“If you’ll take my advice, sir, you’ll have nothing to do with him.  Keep your hand out o’ the pot; there’s no man can skim boiling lead with his hand and not burn his fingers—­but a tinker.”

“Don’t be saucy, you old dog; but ride on, for I must put Black Tom to his speed.”

On arriving at the prison, the squire found Sir Robert pent up in a miserable cell, with a table screwed to the floor, a pallet bed, and a deal form.  Perhaps his comfort might have been improved through the medium of his purse, were it not that the Prison Board had held a meeting that very day, subsequent to his committal, in which, with some dissentients, they considered it their duty to warn the jailer against granting him any indulgence beyond what he was entitled to as a felon, and this under pain of their earnest displeasure.

When the squire entered he found the melancholy baronet and priest-hunter sitting upon the hard form, his head hanging down upon his breast, or, indeed, we might say much farther; for, in consequence of the almost unnatural length of his neck, it appeared on that occasion to be growing out of the middle of his body, or of that fleshless vertebral column which passed for one.

“Well, baronet,” exclaimed Folliard pretty loudly, “here’s an exchange! from the altar to the halter; from the matrimonial noose to honest Jack Ketch’s—­and a devilish good escape it would be to many unfortunate wretches in this same world.”

“Oh, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “is not this miserable?  What will become of me?”

“Now, I tell you what, Whitecraft, I am come to speak to you upon your position; but before I go farther, let me say a word or two to make you repent, if possible, for what you have done to others.”

“For what I have done, Mr. Folliard! why should I not repent, when I find I am to be hanged for it?”

“Oh, hanged you will be, there is no doubt of that; but now consider a little; here you are with a brown loaf, and—­is that water in the jug?”

“It is.”

“Very well; here you are, hard and fast, you who were accustomed to luxuries, to the richest meats, and the richest wines—­here you are with a brown loaf, a jug of water, and the gallows before you!  However, if you wish to repent truly and sincerely, reflect upon the numbers that you and your bloodhounds have consigned to places like this, and sent from this to the gibbet, while you were rioting in luxury and triumph.  Good God, sir, hold up your head, and be a man.  What if you are hanged?  Many a better man was.  Hold up your head, I say.”