tried; but, the real one was chosen, and he was found Guilty, and
cast for death. Bloodthirsty wretches! They would have made him
Guilty of anything, so set they were upon having his life.

'His money could do nothing to save him, and he was hanged. _I_ am
He, and I was hanged at Lancaster Castle with my face to the wall,
a hundred years ago!'


At this terrific announcement, Mr. Goodchild tried to rise and cry
out. But, the two fiery lines extending from the old man's eyes to
his own, kept him down, and he could not utter a sound. His sense
of hearing, however, was acute, and he could hear the clock strike
Two. No sooner had he heard the clock strike Two, than he saw
before him Two old men!

TWO.

The eyes of each, connected with his eyes by two films of fire:
each, exactly like the other: each, addressing him at precisely
one and the same instant: each, gnashing the same teeth in the
same head, with the same twitched nostril above them, and the same
suffused expression around it. Two old men. Differing in nothing,
equally distinct to the sight, the copy no fainter than the
original, the second as real as the first.

'At what time,' said the Two old men, 'did you arrive at the door
below?'

'At Six.'