shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep and took me across his grave, I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there. Wither his flesh, I should!"
The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear and started up.
Good God! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of voice or power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back—with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his—there stood the Jew! and beside him, white with rage, or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the very man who had accosted him at the inn-yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash before his eyes, and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them, and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory as if