“Yes, Frank.”

“I wish you would get the ’Apologia of Plato’,” I said, “and take a big draught of that deathless smiling courage of Socrates.”

“Ah, Frank, how much more humane were the Greeks.  They let his friends see him and talk to him by the hour, though he was condemned to death.  There were no warders there to listen, no degrading conditions.”

“Quite true,” I cried, suddenly realising how much better Oscar Wilde would have been treated in Athens two thousand years ago.  “Our progress is mainly change; we don’t shed our cruelty; even Christ has not been able to humanise us.”

He nodded his head.  At first he seemed greatly distressed; but I managed to encourage him a little, for at the close of the talk he questioned me: 

“Do you really think I may win, Frank?”

“Of course you’ll win,” I replied.  “You must win:  you must not think of being beaten.  Take it that they will not want to convict you.  Say it to yourself in the court; don’t let yourself fear for a moment.  Your enemies are merely stupid, unhappy creatures crawling about for a few miserable years between earth and sun; fated to die and leave no trace, no memory.  Remember you are fighting for all of us, for every artist and thinker who is to be born into the English world....  It is better to win like Galileo than to be burnt like Giordano Bruno.  Don’t let them make another martyr.  Use all your brains and eloquence and charm.  Don’t be afraid.  They will not condemn you if they know you.”

“I have been trying to think,” he said, “trying to make up my mind to bear one whole year of this life.  It’s dreadful, Frank, I had no idea that prison was so dreadful.”

The warder again drew down his brows.  I hastened to change the subject.

“That’s why you must resolve not to have any more of it,” I said; “I wish I had seen you when you came out of court, but I really thought you didn’t want me; you turned away from me.”

“Oh, Frank, how could I?” he cried.  “I should have been so grateful to you.”

“I’m very shortsighted,” I rejoined, “and I thought you did.  It is our foolish little vanities which prevent us acting as we should.  But let me know if I can do anything for you.  If you want me, I’ll come at any moment.”

I said this because the warder had already given me a sign; he now said: 

“Time is up.”

Once again we clasped hands.

“You must win,” I said; “don’t think of defeat.  Even your enemies are human.  Convert them.  You can do it, believe me,” and I went with dread in my heart, and pity and indignation.

    Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: 
    Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

The Governor met me almost at the door.

“It is terrible,” I exclaimed.

“This is no place for him,” he answered.  He has nothing to do with us here.  Everyone likes him and pities him:  the warders, everyone.  Anything I can do to make his stay tolerable shall be done.”