rioters, and that the disturbances had been fomented by foreign powers who sought to compass the overthrow and ruin of England. This report, which was strengthened by the diffusion of anonymous handbills, but which, if it had any foundation at all, probably owed its origin to the circumstance of some few coins which were not English money having been swept into the pockets of the insurgents with other miscellaneous booty, and afterwards discovered on the prisoners or the dead bodies,—caused a great sensation; and men’s minds being in that excited state when they are most apt to catch at any shadow of apprehension, was bruited about with much industry.

All remaining quiet, however, during the whole of this Friday, and on this Friday night, and no new discoveries being made, confidence began to be restored, and the most timid and desponding breathed again. In Southwark, no fewer than three thousand of the inhabitants formed themselves into a watch, and patrolled the streets every hour. Nor were the citizens slow to follow so good an example: and it being the manner of peaceful men to be very bold when the danger is over, they were abundantly fierce and daring; not scrupling to question the stoutest passenger with great severity, and carrying it with a very high hand over all errand- boys, servant-girls, and ’prentices.

As day deepened into evening, and darkness crept into the nooks and corners of the town as if it were mustering in secret and gathering strength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in his dungeon, wondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and outcry which had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in hers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him.

‘Mother,’ he said, after a long silence: ‘how long,—how many days and nights,—shall I be kept here?’

‘Not many, dear. I hope not many.’

‘You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but they don’t mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?’

The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said ‘Nobody,’ as plainly as a croak could speak.

‘Who cares for Grip, except you and me?’ said Barnaby, smoothing the bird’s rumpled feathers with his hand. ‘He never speaks in this place; he never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in his dark corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet. But who cares for Grip?’

The raven croaked again—Nobody.

‘And by the way,’ said Barnaby, withdrawing his hand from the bird, and laying it upon his mother’s arm, as he looked eagerly in her face; ‘if they kill me—they may: I heard it said they would—what will become of Grip when I am dead?’

The sound of the word, or the current of his own thoughts, suggested to Grip his old phrase ‘Never say die!’ But he stopped short in the middle of it, drew a dismal cork, and subsided into a faint croak, as if he lacked the heart to get through the shortest sentence.

‘Will they take his life as well as mine?’ said Barnaby. ‘I wish they would. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none to feel sorry, or to grieve for us. But do what they will, I don’t fear them, mother!’

‘They will not harm you,’ she said, her tears choking her utterance. ‘They never will harm you, when they know all. I am sure they never will.’