The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 199: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE GIBBET 181 tion of Dysart. But the next instant his presence of mind returned, and all in a moment did he marshal and review in his fancy the circumstances that were favourable to him. The governor had solemnly affirmed that a despatch had arrived from the Home Office; he himself had seen the sheriff produce this despatch in order to display it to the chaplain; and Daniel Coffin had given him assurances relative to the nature of its contents. It must be, then, a reprieve — it could be nothing else; oh, no, it could be nothing else! But this hideous uncertainty, — the agonies, the tortures, the excruciations of a thousand racks were comprised therein. Oh, if he had not been so rash, so precipitate in trusting to others! If he had accepted the alternative of the three years’ imprisonment, he would at least have been spared these immitigable horrors, these rending agonies. But was it too late? No; he would tell the sheriff and the governor everything, — how his wife held the solemnly recorded pledge of the prince regent, how the compromise of three years’ imprisonment had been offered him, and how he would now rather accept this proposal than proceed any farther in the pathway which terminated at the scaffold. But, oh, miserable wretch that he was, his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, he could not speak, he felt as if burning ashes were in his throat. Horror of horrors! what was he to do? Fleet and fast did his thoughts thus travel through his brain. Travel! They swept along quicker than the lightning. A whole volume would not contain the reflec- tions which he thus made in the time that his feet were only taking a dozen steps. The page which now affords a succinct outline of those thoughts sinks into utter insignificance when compared with the vast folios and bulky tomes that these ideas, if chronicled at length, would fill. His brain was on fire; it whirled, whirled, and yet he could not give utter- ance to a single one of those myriad million thoughts that were thus sweeping, dashing, flying, gushing, tearing through that maddening brain. And now the breeze suddenly blows more freshly upon his countenance, and at the same instant his eyes, plunging through the opening of a low narrow doorway, recoil, as it were, from the sinister object which bursts upon them. For he is now traversing the little kitchen which is just (COMMU 0)(6\(0) SS (EO) mM