So then, with unhallowed self-revenge, Simon rigidly detailed his crimes:  he led the whole court step by step, as I have led the reader, through the length and breadth of that terrible night:  of the facts he concealed nothing, and the crowded hall of judgment shuddered as one man, when he came to his awful disclosure, hitherto unsuspected, unimagined, of that second strangulation:  as to feelings, he might as well have been a galvanized mummy, an automaton lay-figure enunciating all with bellows and clapper, for any sense he seemed to have of shame, or fear, or pity; he admitted his lie about the door, complimented Burke on the accuracy of his evidence, and declared Roger Acton not merely innocent, but ignorant of the murder.

This done, without any start or trepidation in his manner as formerly, he turned his head over his left shoulder, and said, in a deep whisper, heard all over the court, “And now, Aunt Quarles, I am coming; look out, woman, I will have my revenge for all your hauntings:  again shall we wrestle, again shall we battle, again shall I throttle you, again, again!”

O, most fearful thought! who knoweth but it may be true? that spirits of wickedness and enmity may execute each other’s punishment, as those of righteousness and love minister each other’s happiness! that—­damned among the damned—­the spirit of a Nero may still delight in torturing, and that those who in this world were mutual workers of iniquity, may find themselves in the next, sworn retributors of wrath?  No idle threat was that of the demoniac Simon, and possibly with no vain fears did the ghost of the murdered speed away.

When the sensation of horror, which for a minute delayed the court-business, and has given us occasion to think that fearful thought, when this had gradually subsided, the foreman of the jury, turning to the judge, said,

“My lord, we will not trouble your lordship to sum up; we are all agreed—­Guilty.”

One word about Mr. Sharp:  he was entirely chagrined; his fortunes were at stake; he questioned whether any one in Newgate would think of him again.  To make matters worse, when he whispered for a fee to Mr. Jennings (for he did whisper, however contrary to professional etiquette), that worthy gentleman replied by a significant sneer, to the effect that he had not a penny to give him, and would not if he had:  whereupon Mr. Sharp began to coincide with the rest of the world in regarding so impoverished a murderer as an atrocious criminal; then, turning from his client with contempt, he went to the length of congratulating Roger on his escape, and actually offered his hand to Ben Burke.  The poacher’s reply was characteristic:  “As you means it kindly, Master Horsehair, I won’t take it for an insult:  howsomdever, either your hand or mine, I won’t say which, is too dirty for shaking.  Let me do you a good turn, Master:  there’s a blue-bottle on your wig; I think as it’s Beelzebub a-whispering in your ear:  allow me to drive him away.”  And the poacher dealt him such a cuff that this barrister reeled again; and instantly afterwards took advantage of the cloud of hair-powder to leave the court unseen.