“Here,” said he, taking from his pocket a small paper book, and an ink-horn; “here, your honour, take these, you may want to note the heads of Dawson’s confession, we are now at his door.” Job then applied one of the keys of a tolerably sized bunch to the door, and the next moment we were in Dawson’s apartment. The room which, though low and narrow, was of considerable length, was in utter darkness, and the dim and flickering light Jonson held, only struggled with, rather than penetrated the thick gloom. About the centre of the room stood the bed, and sitting upright on it, with a wan and hollow countenance, bent eagerly towards us, was a meagre, attenuated figure. My recollection of Dawson, whom, it will be remembered, I had only seen once before, was extremely faint, but it had impressed me with the idea of a middle sized and rather athletic man, with a fair and florid complexion: the creature I now saw, was totally the reverse of this idea. His cheeks were yellow and drawn in; his hand which was raised, in the act of holding aside the curtains, was like the talons of a famished vulture, so thin, so long, so withered in its hue and texture. No sooner did the advancing light allow him to see us distinctly, than he half sprung from the bed, and cried, in that peculiar tone of joy, which seems to throw off from the breast a suffocating weight of previous terror and suspense, “Thank God, thank God! it is you at last; and you have brought the clergyman--God bless you, Jonson, you are a true friend to me.” “Cheer up, Dawson,” said Job; “I have smuggled in this worthy gentleman, who, I have no doubt, will be of great comfort to you--but you must be open with him, and tell all.” “That I will--that I will,” cried Dawson, with a wild and vindictive expression of countenance--“if it be only to hang him. Here, Jonson, give me your hand, bring the light nearer--I say--he, the devil--the fiend--has been here to-day, and threatened to murder me; and I have listened, and listened, all night, and thought I heard his step along the passage, and up the stairs, and at the door; but it was nothing, Job, nothing--and you are come at last, good, kind, worthy Job. Oh! ‘tis so horrible to be left in the dark, and not sleep--and in this large, large room, which looks like eternity at night--and one does fancy such sights, Job--such horrid, horrid sights. Feel my wristband, Jonson, and here at my back, you would think they had been pouring water over me, but its only the cold sweat. Oh! it is a fearful thing to have a bad conscience, Job; but you won’t leave me till daylight, now, that’s a dear, good Job!” “For shame, Dawson,” said Jonson; “pluck up, and be a man; you are like a baby frightened by its nurse. Here’s the clergyman come to heal your poor wounded conscience, will you hear him now?” “Yes,” said Dawson; “yes!--but go out of the room--I can’t tell all if you’re here; go, Job, go!--but you’re not angry with me--I don’t mean to offend you.”