“Therefore, dear friend, when the last witnesses gave their testimony to-day, I suddenly remembered my sleep-walking exploits, and I also remembered, what had slipped my mind before, that on the morning after the night the body was buried I had found my dressing gown in the hall outside of my bedroom.  This had surprised me, as I always hung it over a chair near my bed.  The unfortunate victim of my violence must have died in the woods from his wound, and in my dream consciousness I must have seen this and gone to fetch the body.  It must be so.  I know no other explanation.  God have mercy on my sinful soul.”  He was silent again, covering his face with his hands and weeping bitterly.

I was stuck dumb with astonishment and uncertainty.  I had always suspected that the victim had died on the spot where he was buried, although I could not quite understand how the rector had managed to bury the body by day without being seen.  But I thought that he might have covered it lightly with earth and twigs and finished his work at night.  He was a man of sufficient strength of mind to have done this.  When the latest witnesses were telling their story, I noted the possible contradiction, and hoped it might prove a loophole of escape.  But, alas, it was all only too true, and the guilt of the rector proven beyond a doubt.  It was not at all impossible for a man to do such things in his sleep.  Just as it was quite possible that a man with a fractured skull could run some distance before he fell to die.  The rector’s story bore the stamp of truth, although the doubt will come that he desired thus to save a shred of honor for his name.

The prisoner walked up and down the room several times, then stopping before me he said gravely:  “You have now heard my confession, here in my prison walls.  It is your mouth that must speak my sentence.  But what says your heart?”

I could scarcely utter the words, “My heart suffers beyond expression.  I would willingly see it break if I could but save you from a shameful death.” (I dared not mention to him my last hope of escape in flight.)

“That is impossible,” he answered.  “My life is forfeited.  My death is just, and shall serve as a warning to others.  But promise me that you will not desert my poor daughter.  I had thought to lay her in your arms”—­tears choked his voice—­“but, alas, that fond hope is vanished.  You cannot marry the daughter of a sentenced murderer.  But promise me that you will watch over her as her second father.”  In deep sorrow and in tears I held his hand in mine.  “Have you any news from my son?” he began again.  “I hope it will be possible to keep him in ignorance of this terrible affair until—­until it is all over.  I could not bear to see him now.  And now, dear friend, let us part, not to meet again except in the hall of justice.  Grant me of your friendship one last service, let it end soon.  I long for death.  Go now, my kind, sympathetic judge.  Send for me to-morrow to speak my sentence, and send to-day for my brother in God, the pastor in Aalsoe.  He shall prepare me for death.  God be with you.”