I undertook to pass with the murderer--his LAST NIGHT--_such_ a last!--
but let me compose myself.

* * * * *

It was about the hour of ten, on a gusty and somewhat raw evening of
September, that I was locked up alone with the murderer. It was the
evening of the Sabbath. Some rain had fallen, and the sun had not been
long set without doors; but for the last hour and a half the dungeon had
been dark, and illuminated only by a single taper. The clergyman of the
prison, and some of my religious friends, had sat with us until the hour
of locking-up, when, at the suggestion of the gaoler, they departed. I
must confess their "good night," and the sound of the heavy door, which
the gaoler locked after him, when he went to accompany them to the
outer-gate of the gaol, sounded heavily on my heart. I felt a sudden shrink
within me, as their steps quickly ceased to be heard upon the stone
stairs--and when the distant prison door was finally closed, I watched the
last echo. I had for a moment forgotten my companion.

When I turned round, he was sitting on the side of his low pallet, towards
the head of it, supporting his head by his elbow against the wall,
apparently in a state of half stupor. He was motionless, excepting a sort
of convulsive movement, between sprawling and clutching of the fingers of
the right hand, which was extended on his knee. His shrunk cheeks
exhibited a deadly ashen paleness, with a slight tinge of yellow, the
effect of confinement. His eyes were glossy and sunken, and seemed in part
to have lost the power of gazing. They were turned with an unmeaning and
vacant stare upon the window, where the last red streak of day was faintly
visible, which they seemed vainly endeavouring to watch. The sense of my
own situation now recoiled strongly upon me; and the sight of the wretch