friendship--from the very woman whom she had brought to this place. CHAPTER XVIII THE FALLEN ALDERMAN Let me return to the wretched man who had caused this trouble. I learned that, although his two fellow-prisoners declared openly that Mr. Merridew's power was gone and that he would never again have the power to hang anybody, some of his credit was still maintained: he pretended that the books--of which he spoke often and with pride, were still kept up, and that every man's life and liberty were in his hands: and many poor rogues, thinking to curry favour, waited upon him daily, bringing him presents of wine, tobacco and (secretly) rum, so that he was able to be drunk and to forget his anxieties for the greater part of the day. The two rebels against his authority, the Bishop and the Captain, carried themselves bravely: there is, indeed, in the profession of the rogue something of the soldier, in that they both brave dangers without fear. The battle field is covered with the dead and wounded: but there are plenty left standing unhurt: every soldier thinks he will escape: the rogue's field of honour is covered with whipping-posts, stocks, pillory, and gallows. It is far more dangerous than the field of battle. Yet every rogue hopes to escape, and carries himself accordingly. Perhaps it is better so. One would not wish such a crew to be whining and snivelling and pretending repentance and imploring pity. One day I met, coming out of the prison, one whose face and appearance I knew. He was old and bent, and in rags: his woollen stockings were in holes: the elbows of his coat were gone: his hat was too limp to preserve its shape: his buttons were off his coat--he wore the old jasey with a broken pigtail. I touched him on the shoulder. 'You are Mr. Probus's clerk?' I said. 'If I am, Sir,' he replied, 'is that a crime?' 'No--no--no. But you remember me? You bade me once go throw myself into the river with a stone about my neck.' 'Ay--ay,' he replied. 'Yes, I remember you now. I did, I did. Was it good advice, young man?' 'It was, doubtless, very good advice. But I did not take it. What are you doing here?' 'I come to look after my master,' he replied simply. 'Your master? He has kept you in rags and wretchedness. He has given you a starvation wage.' 'Yet he is my master. I have eaten his bread, though it was bitter. I come every day to look after him.' 'Has he no friends? No wife or children to do this for him?' 'His friends were his money bags till he lost them. They were his wife and children as well.' 'Has he no relations--cousins--nephews?' 'Perhaps--he has driven them all away long ago.' 'You are his friend at least.'