with shame? What have I to do with that dauntless yet guiltless front?
With that foolishly-confiding and obsequious, yet erect and
unconquerable, spirit? Is there no means of evading your pursuit? Must I
dip my hands, a second time, in blood; and dig for you a grave by the
side of Watson?"

These words were listened to with calmness. I suspected and pitied the
man, but I did not fear him. His words and his looks were indicative
less of cruelty than madness. I looked at him with an air compassionate
and wistful. I spoke with mildness and composure:--

"Mr. Welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. Would to God I could
restore you to happiness and virtue! but, though my desire be strong, I
have no power to change your habits or rescue you from misery.

"I believed you to be dead. I rejoice to find myself mistaken. While you
live, there is room to hope that your errors will be cured; and the
turmoils and inquietudes that have hitherto beset your guilty progress
will vanish by your reverting into better paths.

"From me you have nothing to fear. If your welfare will be promoted by
my silence on the subject of your history, my silence shall be
inviolate. I deem not lightly of my promises. They are given, and shall
not be recalled.

"This meeting was casual. Since I believed you to be dead, it could not
be otherwise. You err, if you suppose that any injury will accrue to you
from my life; but you need not discard that error. Since my death is
coming, I am not averse to your adopting the belief that the event is
fortunate to you.

"Death is the inevitable and universal lot. When or how it comes, is of
little moment. To stand, when so many thousands are falling around me,
is not to be expected. I have acted an humble and obscure part in the
world, and my career has been short; but I murmur not at the decree that
makes it so.

"The pestilence is now upon me. The chances of recovery are too slender
to deserve my confidence. I came hither to die unmolested, and at peace.
All I ask of you is to consult your own safety by immediate flight; and
not to disappoint my hopes of concealment, by disclosing my condition to
the agents of the hospital."

Welbeck listened with the deepest attention. The wildness of his air
disappeared, and gave place to perplexity and apprehension.

"You are sick," said he, in a tremulous tone, in which terror was
mingled with affection. "You know this, and expect not to recover. No
mother, nor sis