* * * * *
It was about the hour of ten, on a gusty and somewhat raw evening of
September, that I was locked up alone with the murderer. It was the
evening of the Sabbath. Some rain had fallen, and the sun had not been
long set without doors; but for the last hour and a half the dungeon had
been dark, and illuminated only by a single taper. The clergyman of the
prison, and some of my religious friends, had sat with us until the hour
of locking-up, when, at the suggestion of the gaoler, they departed. I
must confess their "good night," and the sound of the heavy door, which
the gaoler locked after him, when he went to accompany them to the
outer-gate of the gaol, sounded heavily on my heart. I felt a sudden shrink
within me, as their steps quickly ceased to be heard upon the stone
stairs--and when the distant prison door was finally closed, I watched the
last echo. I had for a moment forgotten my companion.
When I turned round, he was sitting on the side of his low pallet, towards
the head of it, supporting his head by his elbow against the wall,
apparently in a state of half stupor. He was motionless, excepting a sort
of convulsive movement, between sprawling and clutching of the fingers of
the right hand, which was extended on his knee.
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