“George Fielding, sir?  He affronted me when I was in trouble.  It was no more than I deserved.  I forgive him; but you don’t know the lad, sir.  He would not speak to me; he would not look at me.  He would turn his back on me if we ran against one another in a wilderness.”

“Here is a talisman that will insure you a welcome from him—­a letter from the woman he loves.  Come, yes or no?”

“I will, sir, for your sake, not for theirs.  Sir, do pray give me something harder to do for you than these two things!”

“No, I won’t overweight you—­nor encumber your memory with pledges—­ these two and no more.  And here we part.  See what it is to sin against society.  I, whom your conversation has so interested, to whom your company is so agreeable—­in one word, I, who love you, can find no kinder word to say to you to-day than this—­let me never see your face again—­let me never hear your name in this world!”

His voice trembled as he said these words—­and he wrung Robinson’s hand, and Robinson groaned and turned away.

“So now I can do no more for you—­I must leave the rest to God.”  And with these words, for the second time in their acquaintance, the good soul kneeled down and prayed aloud for this man.  And this time he prayed at length with ardor and tenderness unspeakable.  He prayed as for a brother on the brink of a precipice.  He wrestled with Heaven; and ere he concluded he heard a subdued sound near him, and it was poor Robinson, who, touched and penetrated by such angelic love, and awestruck to hear a good man pour out his very soul at the mercy-seat of Heaven, had crept timidly to his side and knelt there, bearing his mute part in this fervent supplication.

As Mr. Eden rose from his knees Evans knocked gently at the door.  He had been waiting some minutes, but had heard the voice of prayer and reverently forbore to interrupt it.  At his knock the priest and the thief started.  The priest suddenly held out both his hands; the thief bowed his head and kissed them many times, and on this they parted hastily with swelling hearts and not another word—­except the thousands that their moist eyes exchanged in one single look—­the last.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE ship was to sail in a week, and meantime Robinson was in the hulks at Portsmouth.  Now the hulks are a disgrace to Europe, and a most incongruous appendage to a system that professes to cure by separate confinement.  One or two of the worst convicts made the usual overtures of evil companionship to Robinson.  These were coldly declined; and it was a good sign that Robinson, being permitted by the regulations to write one letter, did not write to any of his old pals in London or elsewhere, but to Mr. Eden.  He told him that he regretted his quiet cell where his ears were never invaded with blasphemy and indecency, things he never took pleasure in even at his worst—­and missed his reverence’s talk sadly.  He concluded by asking for some good books by way of antidote.