'Sir,' he went on, 'I am a Poet. As a child of the Muses'--I thought they were unmarried but did not venture on that objection--'it is my business to observe the crooked ways of men and the artful ways of women, even though one may at times be misunderstood--as has once or twice happened. One may be the temporary companion of a Rogue without having to pick a pocket. I remember the faces of those two men--I saw them in a Thieves' Kitchen whither I was taken in disguise by one who knows them. The Captain, Sir, is a Highwayman, common and notorious. He is now five-and-twenty, and his rope is certainly long out, so that he is kept from Tyburn Tree by some special favour by Mr. Merridew the Thief-Taker. The other, whom they call the Bishop, is a Rogue of some education. He may last longer because he is useful and it would be hard to replace him. He was once usher in a suburban school at Marybone, and now writes lying, threatening or begging letters for the crew. He also concocts villainies. He threatens to set the house on fire, or to bring the householder into bankruptcy: or in some way to injure him fatally unless he sends a certain sum of money. He tells gentlemen who have been robbed that they can have their papers back, but not their money, by sending a reward. His villainy is without any pity or mercy or consideration. The Captain is a mere robber--a Barabbas. The Bishop is worse: he has the soul of a Fiend in the body of a man.' 'But why,' I said 'are they here?' 'They are in hiding. A sham debt has been sworn against them. From their dejected faces and from what I have overheard them saying, I learn that a true debt has been added for another detainer. But indeed I know not their affairs, except that they came here in order to be out of the way, and that something has happened to disconcert their plans. As honest men we must agree in hoping that their plans, which are certainly dishonest, may succeed, in order that their presence among us may cease and so we may breathe again. The air of the Prison is sometimes close and even musty, but we do not desire it to be mistaken for the reek of St. Giles's or the stench of Turnmill Street.' However, I troubled myself but little as to these two men. And I know not how long they were in the prison. Had I known what they would do for me in the future I think I should have brained them there and then. This afternoon the pair were talking together with none of the listlessness that belongs to the King's Bench. 'Might as well get out at once'--I heard fragments--'quite certain that he won't appear--no more danger--if she will consent,' and so on--phrases to which I paid no attention. Suddenly, however, they stopped short, and both cried out together: 'She's come herself!' I looked out of my window and beheld a Vision.