for I still think you are a gentleman; open me up, I say, the shrouded graves—­set me among the hideous dead, in all their ghastly and loathsome putrefaction—­lay me side by side with the sweltering carcass of the gibbeted murderer—­give me such a vision, and expose me to the anger of the Almighty when raging in his vengeance; or, if there be a pitch of horror still beyond this, then I say—­mark me, my friend—­then I say, open me up all hell at full work—­hissing, boiling, bubbling, scalding, roasting, frying, scorching, blazing, burning, but ever-consuming hell, sir, I say, in full operation—­the whole dark and penal machinery in full play—­open it up—­there they are—­the yell, the scream, the blasphemy, the shout, the torture, the laughter of despair—­with the pleasing consciousness that all this is to be eternal; hark ye, sir, open me up a view of this aforesaid spectacle upon the very brow of perdition, and having allowed me time to console myself by a contemplation of it, fling me, soul and body, into the uttermost depths of its howling tortures; do any or all of these things, sooner than let me have a sight of that face again—­it bears such a terrible resemblance to that which blighted me.”

He then paused for a little, and seemed as if about to sink into a calmer and more thoughtful mood—­at least the baronet inferred as much from his silence.  The latter still declined to speak, for he felt perfectly aware, from this incoherent outburst, that although Fenton had seen him only two or three times, many years ago, when the unfortunate young man was scarcely a boy, yet he had often heard his voice, and he consequently avoided every possibility of giving the former a clew to his identity.  At length Fenton broke silence.

“What was I saying?” he asked.  “Did I talk of that multitudinous limbo called hell?  Well, who knows, perhaps there may be a general jail delivery there yet; but talking of the thing, I assure you, sir, I feel a portion of its tortures.  Like Dives—­no, not like the rich and hardened glutton—­I resemble him in nothing but my sufferings.  Oh! a drink, a drink—­water, water—­my tongue, my mouth, my throat, my blood, my brain, are all on fire?”

Oh, false ambition, to what mean and despicable resources, to what low and unscrupulous precautions dost thou stoop in order to accomplish thy selfish, dishonest, and heartless designs!  The very gratification of this expected thirst had been provided for and anticipated.  As Fenton spoke, the baronet took from one of the coach pockets a large flask of spirits and water, which he instantly, but without speaking, placed in the scorching wretch’s hands, who without a moment’s hesitation, put it to his lips and emptied it at one long, luxurious draught.