“I see no alternative,” replied the Black. “Arthur will call daily at Finchley Manor--and your frequent absence would, to say the least of it, appear strange.” “Oh! wherefore not allow Arthur at once to be made acquainted with the whole truth?” demanded Esther, in an earnest and appealing manner. “No--no--that may not be!” exclaimed the Blackamoor. “My projects must first be carried out to the very end: for it would be my pride and my triumph, when all danger shall have passed away, to say to him, ‘_Arthur, you were surrounded by perils which you did not suspect: demons were plotting every kind of atrocity against your peace;--and I have annihilated all their schemes, and tamed the schemers themselves!_’ Urge me not therefore, my dear Esther, to deviate from the course which I have chalked out for myself, and which I consider to be to some extent an atonement for the misdeeds of my own life. Yes--for he who accomplishes a great good, assuredly expiates a great amount of evil.” “For heaven’s sake, recur not to the past!” murmured the beautiful Jewess, turning pale and shuddering at the crowd of unpleasant--nay awful reminiscences which her companion’s language recalled to her mind. “No--let us deliberate only for the present,” exclaimed the Black; “and the more I think of the plan which I have suggested, the more suitable does it appear. Yes,” he continued, “this is the only alternative. Let _your_ visits to Benjamin Bones cease, Esther--and yet let him still continue to believe that he is not neglected nor deserted by Miss de Medina. I need say no more: the rest lies with you.” “I understand you,” returned the Hebrew maiden; “and it shall be as you desire.” She then took her departure. CHAPTER CXIV. OLD DEATH IN THE DUNGEON. It was five o’clock in the evening of the following day; and Old Death was crouched up, like a wild beast, upon his bed in the dungeon, which was now lighted by the lamp that Esther de Medina had given him. His natural emaciation had so frightfully increased, that he seemed but a skeleton in the clothes which hung upon him as if they had never been made for one so thin as he. The skirts of his old grey coat were wrapped around his wasted shanks--for, though it was now the month of May, yet it was cold in that dungeon. His countenance was wan and ghastly;--but its expression was little calculated to excite pity--for any thing more diabolically ferocious than the old miscreant’s aspect, cannot be well conceived. His face was the horrible reflex of a mind filled with passions and longings of so savage and inhuman a nature, that the mere thought makes one shudder.