rated muniment-room of Hurstley. Oh, what a
howl the caitiff gave, when he saw that his treasure had been taken! he
was a wild bull in a net; a crocodile caught upon the hooks; a hyena at
bay. What could he do? which way should he turn? how help himself, or
get his gold again? Unluckily--Oh, confusion, confusion!--his
account-books were along with all his hoard, those tell-tale legers,
wherein he had duly noted down, for his own private and triumphant
glance, the curious difference between his lawful and unlawful gains;
there, was every overcharge recorded, every matter of extortion
systematically ranged, that he might take all the tenants in their turn;
there, were filed the receipts of many honest men, whom the guardians
and Sir John had long believed to be greatly in arrear; there, was
recorded at length the catalogue of dues from tradesmen; there, the list
of bribes for the custom of the Hall. It would amply authorize Sir John
in appropriating the whole store; and Jennings thought of this with
terror. Every thing was now obviously lost, lost! Oh, sickening little
word, all lost! all he had ever lived for--all which had made him live
the life he did--all which made him fear to die. "Fear to die--ha! who
said that? I will not fear to die; yes, there is one escape left, I will
hazard the blind leap; this misery shall have an end--this sleepless,
haunted, cheated, hated wretch shall live no longer--ha! ha! ha! ha!
I'll do it! I'll do it!"

Then did that wretched man strive in vain to kill himself, for his hour
was not yet come. His first idea was laudanum--that only mean of any
thing like rest to him for many weeks; and pouring out all he had, a
little phial, nearly half a wine-glass full, he quickly drank it off: no
use--no use; the agitation of his mind was too intense, and the habit
of a continually increasing dose had made him proof against the poison;
it would not even lull him, but seemed to stretch and rack his nerves,
exciting him to deeds of bloody daring. Should he rush out, like a Malay
running a muck, with a carving-knife in each hand, and kill right and
left:--vengeance! vengeance! on Jonathan Floyd, and John Vincent? No,
no; for some of them at last would overcome him, think him mad, and, O
terror!--his doom for life, without the means of death, would be
solitary confinement. "Stay! with this knife in my hand--means of
death--yes, it shall be so." And he hurriedly drew the knife across his
throat; no use,