of the room stood the bed, and sitting upright on it, with a wan and
hollow countenance, bent eagerly towards us, was a meagre, attenuated
figure. My recollection of Dawson, whom, it will be remembered, I had
only seen once before, was extremely faint, but it had impressed me with
the idea of a middle sized and rather athletic man, with a fair and
florid complexion: the creature I now saw, was totally the reverse of
this idea. His cheeks were yellow and drawn in; his hand which was
raised, in the act of holding aside the curtains, was like the talons of
a famished vulture, so thin, so long, so withered in its hue and texture.

No sooner did the advancing light allow him to see us distinctly, than he
half sprung from the bed, and cried, in that peculiar tone of joy, which
seems to throw off from the breast a suffocating weight of previous
terror and suspense, "Thank God, thank God! it is you at last; and you
have brought the clergyman--God bless you, Jonson, you are a true friend
to me."

"Cheer up, Dawson," said Job; "I have smuggled in this worthy gentleman,
who, I have no doubt, will be of great comfort to you--but you must be
open with him, and tell all."

"That I will--that I will," cried Dawson, with a wild and vindictive
expression of countenance--"if it be only to hang him. Here, Jonson, give
me your hand, bring the light nearer--I say--he, the devil--the fiend--
has been here to-day, and threatened to murder me; and I have listened,
and listened, all night, and thought I heard his step along the passage,
and up the stairs, and at the door; but it was nothing, Job, nothing--and
you are come at last, good, kind, worthy Job. Oh! 'tis so horrible to be
left in the dark, and not sleep--and in this large, large room, which
looks like eternity at night--and one does fancy such sights, Job--such