“I couldn’t think at first,” he answered in the same tongue; “I couldn’t think at all:  I was numbed.”

“Your friends should have thought of it,” I insisted, not knowing then that they had done their best.

At this moment the warder, who had turned away towards the door, came back.

“You are not allowed, sir, to talk in a foreign language,” he said quietly.  “You will understand we have to obey the rules.  Besides, the prisoner must not speak of this prison as a place of torture.  I ought to report that; I’m sorry.”

The misery of it all brought tears to my eyes:  his gaolers even felt sorry for him.  I thanked the warder and turned again to Oscar.

“Don’t let yourself fear at all,” I exclaimed.  “You will have your chance again and must take it; only don’t lose heart and don’t be witty next time in court.  The jury hate it.  They regard it as intellectual superiority and impudence.  Treat all things seriously and with grave dignity.  Defend yourself as David would have defended his love for Jonathan.  Make them all listen to you.  I would undertake to get free with half your talent even if I were guilty; a resolution not to be beaten is always half the battle....  Make your trial memorable from your entrance into the court to the decision of the jury.  Use every opportunity and give your real character a chance to fight for you.”

I spoke with tears in my eyes and rage in my heart.

“I will do my best, Frank,” he said despondingly, “I will do my best.  If I were out of this place, I might think of something, but it is dreadful to be here.  One has to go to bed by daylight and the nights are interminable.”

“Haven’t you a watch?” I cried.

“They don’t allow you to have a watch in prison,” he replied.

“But why not?” I asked in amazement.  I did not know that every rule in an English prison is cunningly devised to annoy and degrade the unfortunate prisoner.

Oscar lifted his hands hopelessly: 

“One may not smoke; not even a cigarette; and so I cannot sleep.  All the past comes back; the golden hours; the June days in London with the sunshine dappling the grass and the silken rustling of the wind in the trees.  Do you remember Wordsworth speaks ’of the wind in the trees’?  How I wish I could hear it now, breathe it once again.  I might get strength then to fight.”

“Is the food good?” I asked.

“It’s all right; I get it from outside.  The food doesn’t matter.  It is the smoking I miss, the freedom, the companionship.  My mind will not act when I’m alone.  I can only think of what has been and torment myself.  Already I’ve been punished enough for the sins of a lifetime.”

“Is there nothing I can do for you, nothing you want?” I asked.

“No, Frank,” he answered, “it was kind of you to come to see me, I wish I could tell you how kind.”

“Don’t think of it,” I said; “if I’m any good send for me at any moment:  a word will bring me.  They allow you books, don’t they?”