Cowen declined to see him. "I thank you, sir," said he, "I will defend myself." He said, however, he had a little favor to ask. "I have been," said he, "of late much agitated and fatigued, and a sore trial awaits me in the morning. A few hours of unbroken sleep would be a boon to me." "The turnkeys must come in to see you are all right." "It is their duty; but I will lie in sight of the door if they will be good enough not to wake me." "There can be no objection to that; Captain, and I am glad to see you calmer." "Thank you; never calmer in my life." He got his pillow, set two chairs, and composed himself to sleep. He put the candle on the table, that the turnkeys might peep through the door and see him. Once or twice they peeped in very softly, and saw him sleeping in the full light of the candle, to moderate which, apparently, he had thrown a white handkerchief over his face. At nine in the morning they brought him his breakfast, as he must be at Bow Street between ten and eleven. When they came so near him, it struck them he lay too still. They took off the handkerchief. He had been dead some hours. Yes, there, calm, grave, and noble, incapable, as it seemed, either of the passions that had destroyed him or the tender affection which redeemed yet inspired his crimes, lay the corpse of Edward Cowen. Thus miserably perished a man in whom were many elements of greatness. He left what little money he had to Bradbury, in a note imploring him to keep particulars out of the journals, for his son's sake; and such was the influence on Bradbury of the scene at the "Star," the man's dead face, and his dying words, that, though public detail was his interest, nothing transpired but that the gentleman who had been arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder at the "Swan" Inn had committed suicide: to which was added by another hand: "Cox, however, has the King's pardon, and the affair still remains shrouded with mystery." Cox was permitted to see the body of Cowen, and, whether the features had gone back to youth, or his own brain, long sobered in earnest, had enlightened his memory, recognized him as a man he had seen committed for horse-stealing at Ipswich, when he himself was the mayor's groom; but some girl lent the accused a file, and he cut his way out of the cage. Cox's calamity was his greatest blessing. He went into Newgate scarcely knowing there was a God; he came out thoroughly enlightened in that respect by the teaching of the chaplain and the death of Cowen. He went in a drunkard; the noose that dangled over his head so long terrified him into life-long sobriety--for he laid all the blame on liquor--and he came out as bitter a foe to drink as drink had been to him.