On the eighth day, Boswell paid me a visit in the evening, and brought me much better fare than had been supplied during the week. He was attended by several men, who did not enter my dungeon, but made merry in the chamber adjoining mine. He spread the table with decent viands, and produced a bottle of wine, the black man coming and going all the time on one errand or another, both being weaponed. When supper was laid, Boswell removed my manacles and fetters, and invited me to eat and drink; and I drew up to table, thinking, as I took knife into my hand, now free, that the best use to which I could put it would be to cut the fellow's throat; but, as I should be all the better of meat and wine, I decided to wait until after supper. He smiled, as if he read my thoughts, and called out, "Hal, Pete, Robin, have you your tools handy?" But he did not quite understand my notion, which was that it might be a good thing to make an end of him, whatever might happen to me afterwards. When I had finished my meal, Boswell said-- "I have to make you an offer, which will not be made again, if you refuse it. If you will put yourself into my hands, I will have you conveyed out of this country, and set free with money enough in your purse to equip yourself like a gentleman." "Is it part of your conditions that I see nobody--speak to nobody--and disappear without the knowledge of my friends?" I asked. "Assuredly." "Then I decline your offer." "Consider well," he replied. "You will disappear, whether you accept or refuse. You have disappeared already. If you agree to my proposal, you will find yourself free, with a well-filled purse. You will be some thousands of miles away from England; but there will be nothing to hinder your return, if you desire to return." "And what will happen to me if I refuse?" "You will find yourself far away from home and friends, penniless, helpless, a hopeless slave." "Why should you be at so much trouble in disposing of me? Why not kill me here?" "Well inquired," said Boswell. "If my advice had been taken, you would have been buried under these stones." "I am indebted to you for your kindness," I remarked. "You may come to think so," answered Boswell. "My patron wants a fuller vengeance than your death would be." "Vengeance!" I exclaimed. "He has much to say (in his cups, I grant) of how you stole the affection of a brother, and bred quarrel between him and his father, and alienated friends from him. If the half be true, it is no wonder he should hate you." I sat speechless with astonishment awhile, for I was too young to know what lies men can tell, deluding even themselves into a sort of belief in their truth. "What I say," continued Boswell, as if to himself, "is that revenge is costly, and death pays all." "But, how would my removal to a distant country satisfy Sheffield, if he burns for vengeance?" I asked. "I did not say that it would. The offer is mine," he answered.