Олівер Твіст

Chapter 52

           Scoresofmenmusthavepassedtheirlasthoursthere.Itwaslikesittinginavaultstrewnwithdeadbodies—thecap,thenoose,thepinionedarms,thefacesthatheknew,evenbeneaththathideousveil.—Light,light!

           Atlength,whenhishandswererawwithbeatingagainsttheheavydoorandwalls,twomenappeared:onebearingacandle,whichhethrustintoanironcandlestickfixedagainstthewall:theotherdragginginamattressonwhichtopassthenight;fortheprisonerwastobeleftalonenomore.

           Thencamethenight—dark,dismal,silentnight.Otherwatchersaregladtohearthischurch-clockstrike,fortheytelloflifeandcomingday.Tohimtheybroughtdespair.Theboomofeveryironbellcameladenwiththeone,deep,hollowsound—Death.Whatavailedthenoiseandbustleofcheerfulmorning,whichpenetratedeventhere,tohim?Itwasanotherformofknell,withmockeryaddedtothewarning.

           Thedaypassedoff.Day?Therewasnoday;itwasgoneassoonascome—andnightcameonagain;nightsolong,andyetsoshort;longinitsdreadfulsilence,andshortinitsfleetinghours.Atonetimeheravedandblasphemed;andatanotherhowledandtorehishair.Venerablemenofhisownpersuasionhadcometopraybesidehim,buthehaddriventhemawaywithcurses.Theyrenewedtheircharitableefforts,andhebeatthemoff.

           Saturdaynight.Hehadonlyonenightmoretolive.Andashethoughtofthis,thedaybroke—Sunday.

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