Chapter 2

In a small room, containing a box-bedstead, a single chair, and a common wooden table, on which was a pitcher of water, sat Michael Rust. The heavy iron bars which grated the windows, and the doors of thick oaken plank, secured by strong bolts of iron, indicated beyond a doubt the nature of his abode--a prison. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, with his arms resting on the table, which was drawn close to it, and his head leaning upon them. At times he straightened himself up, looked listlessly about the room, and then resumed his old position.

A key turned in the door; the heavy bolt was drawn back, and a head was thrust in.

'Some one wants to see you. Shall he come in?'

'Yes.'

The head was withdrawn, and the door being opened, admitted no less a person than Mr. Kornicker, somewhat faded in appearance since we last saw him, but still wearing an air of dashing pretension. He stood at the door, shaking his head, winking to himself, and fumbling in his pocket, evidently in a state of great mental perplexity, probably from his entertaining doubts as to what would be the character of his reception; or from his being equally uncertain as to the best mode of opening the conversation. Nor was he at all relieved by Rust, who without moving, fastened his eye upon him with a cold, steadfast stare.

Kornicker, however, seemed to have fixed upon his course of action at last; for he walked up to him, and stretching out his hand, said:

'Wont you give us your flipper, my old fellow? You're in trouble, but I'll stand by you to the last. If I don't, damme!' He struck his other hand on the table, and nodded and winked with great vehemence.

'So there is yet one who has not turned his back on the felon,' said Rust, partly addressing Kornicker and partly speaking to himself; 'one true man; a rare thing in this world; a jewel--a jewel, beyond all price; and like all costly stones, found only in the poorest soils; but,' added he, 'what have _I_ done to gain friends, or to link one solitary heart to my fortunes?--what?'

He shook his head; and although his face was unmoved, and he spoke in the low, half-soliloquizing manner of one who rather brooded over the past than regretted it, yet there was something so sad in his tone, and in his melancholy gesture, that it did more to call forth the warm feelings of Kornicker than the most eloquent language.

'What have you done?' demanded he, earnestly; 'I'll _tell_ you what you