From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so.
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.
“That’s me!” cried the Jew, falling, instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!”