CHAPTER XXIX

Fagin's Last Hours

The court was packed with people. Curious eyes looked from every inch of space, and all were fixed upon one man—Fagin. He stood in the dock, with his head thrust forward to enable him to catch every word that fell from the judge's lips as he delivered his speech to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the judge's words upon them. At other times he looked towards his lawyer in a silent appeal that he would, even then, say something in his favour. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same attitude of close attention as though he listened still.

A slight noise in the court recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw the members of the jury passing out, to consider their verdict. He looked around him; he could see the people rising above each other to see his face.

At length there was a cry of silence: the jury returned, and passed close by him. He could learn nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect silence followed—not a breath—guilty.

The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another. When silence was restored Fagin was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his silent attitude; the question was repeated to him twice before he could answer, and then all he could say was that he was an old man—an old man.

They led him out of the court room through another room where some prisoners were awaiting trial, and through a gloomy passage into the interior of the prison. Here he was searched lest he should have about him some means of killing himself; then he was led to his cell where he was left alone.

He sat down on a stone bench which served for seat and bed, and tried to collect his thoughts. After a while he began to remember a few words of what the judge had said. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more. In a little while he had the whole speech, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead.

As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold, some of them through his means. He had seen some of them die, and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? He began to beat with his hands on the heavy door of the cell. At length two men appeared, one bearing a candle, which he put into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall, the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night, for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.

Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday.

The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a face more like that of a trapped beast than that of a man. His mind was wandering to his old life, and he continued to mutter, apparently unconscious of the presence of his jailers:

"Good boy, Charlie—well done! Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Quite the gentleman now—quite the ... "

"Fagin," said the jailer. "Fagin, Fagin! Here's somebody wants to speak to you. Now sir," he said, as Mr. Brownlow entered, "tell him what you want, quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on."

"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks."

"It's all a lie," replied Fagin. "I haven't any papers." "For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, "do not say that now; tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?"

"The papers," said Fagin, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room."

"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the jailer.

"No, thank you," replied Mr. Brownlow.