Then did he spread upon the table a certain shawl, and set the crocks in order on it:  and it was quite impossible to leave behind that pretty ostentatious “Savings’ Bank,” which the shrewd hoarder kept as a feint to lure thieves from her hidden gold, by an open exhibition of her silver:  unluckily, though, the shillings, not being leathered up nor branned, rattled like a Mandarin toy, as the trembling hand of Jennings deposited the bank beside the crockeries—­and, at the well-known sound, I observed (though Simon did not, as he was in a trance of addled triumph) or fancied I observed Mrs. Quarles’s head move:  but as she said nothing, perhaps I was mistaken.  Thus stood Simon at the table, surveying his extraordinary spoils.

And while he looked, the Mercy of God, which never yet hath seen the soul too guilty for salvation, spake to him kindly, and whispered in his ear, “Poor, deluded man—­there is yet a moment for escape—­flee from this temptation—­put all back again—­hasten to thy room, to thy prayers, repent, repent:  even thou shalt be forgiven, and none but God, who will forgive thee, shall know of this bad crime.  Turn now from all thy sins; the gate of bliss is open, if thou wilt but lift the latch.”

It was one moment of irresolute delay; on that hinge hung Eternity.  The gate swung upon its pivot, that should shut out hell, or heaven!

Simon knit his brow—­bit his nails—­and answered quite out loud, “What! and after all to lose the crock of gold?”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MURDER.

HE had waked her!

In an instant the angel form of Mercy melted away—­and there stood the devil with his arms folded.

“Murder!—­fire!—­rape!—­thieves!—­what, Nephew Jennings, is that you, with all my honey pots?  Help! help! help!”

“Phew-w-w!” whistled the devil:  “I tell you what, Master Simon, you must quiet the old woman, she bellows like a bull, the house’ll be about your ears in a twinkling—­she’ll hang you for this!”

Yes—­he must quiet her—­the game was up; he threatened, he implored, but she would shriek on; she slept alone on the ground-floor, and knew she must roar loudly to be heard above the drawing-rooms; she would not be quieted—­she would shriek—­and she did.  What must he do? she’ll raise the house!—­Stop her mouth, stop her mouth, I say, can’t you?—­No, she’s a powerful, stout, heavy woman, and he cannot hold her:  ha! she has bitten his finger to the bone, like a very tigress! look at the blood!

“Why can’t you touch her throat; no teeth there, bless you! that’s the way the wind comes:  bravo! grasp it—­tighter! tighter! tighter!”

She struggled, and writhed, and wrestled, and fought—­but all was strangling silence; they rolled about the floor together, tumbled on the bed, scuffled round the room, but all in horrid silence; neither uttered a sound, neither had a shoe on—­but all was earnest, wicked, death-dealing silence.