“Yes,--you are beyond the reach of human aid, unless by _my_ will and consent,” said the Blackamoor. “Your late companions or tools in iniquity are all housed safely here;--and, what is more, they are penitent. Listen for a moment, Benjamin Bones; and may the information I am about to give you, prove an instructive lesson. Timothy Splint is at this instant reading the Bible, therein to search for hope and consolation, which God does not deny to the worst sinners when they are truly penitent. Joshua Pedler is occupying himself in writing a letter of advice to a young girl who became his mistress, whom he drove to prostitution, but who is now earning her livelihood in a respectable manner. Tidmarsh deplores the folly which made him your instrument; and he is reading good books. Bunce and his wife are together in the same dungeon; and the woman is rapidly yielding up to her husband that empire which she had usurped. They too regret that they ever knew you; and the Bible is their solace. Of six persons whom I imprisoned in this place which was once your own property, five are already repentant: you, who are the sixth, alone remain obdurate and hardened.” “And my old friends curse me!” moaned the ancient miscreant, his voice seeming more hollow and sepulchral than ever, as if he were covering his face with his hands. “What--the people who owe so much to me--the Bunces--Tidmarsh----” “Would not speak to you, unless it were to convert you,” added the Black. “Thus, you perceive, you--who, in the common course of nature, are of all the six the nearest to the threshold of the tomb,--you, who have so many years upon your head, and such deep and manifold crimes to expiate,--_you_, Benjamin Bones,” continued the warning voice, “are the last to show the slightest--the faintest sign of penitence. Is not this deplorable? And even now you appear to regret that your late companions in crime should be in their hearts thus alienated from you. Doubtless you trusted to the chapter of accidents--to the hazard of chances to enable them to discover your place of imprisonment and effect your rescue?” Old Death groaned heavily, in spite of himself. “Yes:--such was your hope--such was your idea,” resumed the Black; “and now you are unmanned by disappointment. Even your friend Jeffreys turned against you--he led you into the snare which I set for you--he will not raise an arm to save you from my power. He does not even know where you are.” “Then I am abandoned by all the world!” shrieked forth the wretched miscreant, unable to subdue the agonising emotions which this conviction excited within him. “He who finds himself abandoned by all the world, should throw himself upon his Maker,” said the Blackamoor.