As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling, and there was a crowd about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick could not bear to watch. The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. “Gaston Carew, the player?” he growled. “Ye can’t come in without a permit from the warden.” “We must,” said Jones. “Must?” said the turnkey. “I am the only one who says ‘must’ in Newgate!” and slammed the door in their faces. The player clinked a shilling on the bar. “It was a boy he said would come,” growled the turnkey through the wicket, pocketing the shilling; “so just the boy goes up. A shilling’s worth, ye mind, and not another wink.” He drew Nick in, and dropped the bars. It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. “Give me a penny,” he said, “or I will curse thee.” Nick shuddered. “Up with thee,” said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the stairs. The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to his jerkin. In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when it closed. “Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro,” he was saying over and over again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name. Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged. The turnkey shook the bars. “Here, wake up!” he said.