The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.

“Good boy, Charley⁠—well done⁠—” he mumbled. “Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too⁠—quite the gentleman now⁠—quite the⁠—take that boy away to bed!”

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.

“Take him away to bed!” cried Fagin. “Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the⁠—the⁠—somehow the cause of all this. It’s worth the money to bring him up to it⁠—Bolter’s throat, Bill; never mind the girl⁠—Bolter’s throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!”

“Fagin,” said the jailer.