h at vacancy--he wrestles--struggles--falls.

All was now confusion: even the grave judge, who had necessarily stopped
at that frightful interruption, leaned eagerly over his desk, while
barristers and serjeants learned in the law crowded round the prisoner:
"He is dying! air, there--air! a glass of water, some one!"

About a thimbleful of water, after fifty spillings, arrived safely in a
tumbler; but as for air, no one in that court had breathed any thing but
nitrogen for four hours.

He was dying: and three several doctors, hoisted over the heads of an
admiring multitude, rushed to his relief with thirsty lancets:
apoplexy--oh, of course, apoplexy: and they nodded to each other
confidentially.

Yes, he was dying: they might not move him now: he must die in his sins,
at that dread season, upon that dread spot. Perjury, robbery, and
murder--all had fastened on his soul, and were feeding there like
harpies at a Strophadian feast, or vultures ravening on the liver of
Prometheus. Guilt, vengeance, death had got hold of him, and rent him,
as wild horses tearing him asunder different ways; he lay there
gurgling, strangling, gasping, panting: none could help him, none could
give him ease; he was going on the dark, dull path in the bottom of that
awful valley, where Death's cold shadow overclouds it like a canopy; he
was sinking in that deep black water, that must some day drown us
all--pray Heaven, with hope to cheer us then, and comfort in the fierce
extremity! His eye filmed, his lower jaw relaxed, his head dropped
back--he was dying--dying--dying--

On a sudden, he rallied! his blood had rushed back again from head to
heart, and all the doctors were deceived--again he battled, and fought,
and wrestled, and flung them from him; again he howled, and his eyes
glared lightning--mad? Yes, mad--stark mad! quick--quick--we cannot hold
him: save yourselves there!

But he only broke away from them to stand up free--then he gave one
scream, leaped high into the air, and fell down dead in the dock, with a
crimson stream of blood issuing from his mouth.

CHAPTER XLIX.

RIGHTEOUS MAMMON.

Thus the crock of gold had gained another victim. Is the curse of its
accumulation still unsatisfied? Must more misery be born of that
unhallowed store? Shall the poor man's wrongs, and his little ones' cry
for bread, and the widows' vain appeal for indulgence in necessity, and
the debtor's useless hope for time--more time--and the