saved my life.  When you came here a stocking was knotted round my throat; a minute later the man you call your brother—­God bless you—­would have been no more.  There, I never meant you should know that, and now it has slipped out.  My benefactor! my kind friend! my angel! for you are an angel and not a man.  What can I do to show you what I feel?  What can I say?  There, I tremble all over now as I did then.  I’m choking for words, and the cruel, thick door keeps me from you.  I want to put my neck under your foot, for I can’t speak.  All I say isn’t worth a button.  Words! words! words! give me words that mean something.  They shan’t keep me from you, they shan’t! they shan’t!  My stubborn heart was between us once, now there is only a door.  Give me your hand! give me your hand before my heart bursts.”

“There! there!”

“Hold it there!”

“Yes! yes!”

“My lips are here close opposite it.  I am kissing your dear hand.  There! there! there!  I bless you!  I love you!  I adore you!  I am kissing your hand, and I am on my knees blessing you and kissing.  Oh, my heart! my heart! my heart!”

There was a long silence, disturbed only by sobs that broke upon the night from the black cell.  Mr. Eden leaned against the door with his hand in the same place; the prisoner kissed the spot from time to time.

“Your reverence is crying, too!” was the first word spoken, very gently.

“How do you know?”

“You don’t speak, and my heart tells me you are shedding a tear for me; there was only that left to do for me.”

Then there was another silence, and true it was that the good man and the bad man mingled some tears through the massy door.  These two hearts pierced it, and went to and fro through it, and melted in spite of it, and defied and utterly defeated it.

“Did you speak, dear sir?”

“No! not for the world!  Weep on, my poor sinning, suffering brother.  Heaven sends you this blessed rain; let it drop quietly on your parched soul, refresh you, and shed peace on your troubled heart.  Drop, gentle dew from heaven, upon his spirit; prepare the dry soul for the good seed!”

And so the bad man wept abundantly; to him old long-dried sources of tender feeling were now unlocked by Christian love and pity.

The good man shed a gentle tear or two of sympathy—­of sorrow, too, to find so much goodness had been shut up, driven in and wellnigh quenched forever in the poor thief.

To both these holy drops were as the dew of Hermon on their souls.

          O lacryrnarum fons tenero sacros
          Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
          Felix in imo qui scatentem
          Pectore te pia Nynmpha sensit.

Robinson was the first to break silence.

“Go home, sir, now; you have done your work, you have saved me.  I feel at peace.  I could sleep.  You need not fear to leave me now.”