daylight, became rarer, until at length it was as dark as the tomb.  The new arrival was received by the gaoler, a man with bristly grey hair, a prominent forehead, and pronounced features which incessant ill-humour had twisted into a lasting grimace.  Who would not be ill-humoured indeed, were he forced to spend a blameless life in a dungeon among thieves and murderers and even—­worst of all—­among those who had been foolishly led astray?  Directly he saw the tottering, shadowy figure of the prisoner come round the pillar, he knew the blow had fallen.  Midnight had struck for the poor fellow.  Annoyed that such people should let themselves be so stupidly taken by surprise, he had continually snubbed him harshly.  To-day he accompanied him to his cell in silence, and when opening it avoided rattling the keys.  But he could not help looking through the spy-hole to see what the poor fellow would do.  What he saw was the condemned man falling on to the brick floor and lying there motionless.  The gaoler was alarmed, and opened the door again.  So the man was clever enough to die quickly?  That would be a miscarriage!  But the culprit moved slightly, and begged to be left alone.

And he was alone, once again in this damp room with the wooden bench, the straw mattress, the water-jug on a table—­things which during the long period of probation he had gazed at a hundred times, thinking of nothing but “They must acquit me.”  Out of the planks that propped up the straw mattress he had put together a kind of table, a work of which the gaoler disapproved, but he had not destroyed it.  High up in the wall was a small barred window, through which mercifully came the reflection from an outer opposite wall, now lighted by the sun.  The edge of a steep gabled roof and a chimney could be just seen through the window, and in between peeped a three-cornered piece of blue sky.  That was the joy of the cell.  Konrad did not know that he owed this room to special kindness.  The scanty light from above had been a comfort, almost a promise, all the weary weeks:  “They will send you a free man out into the sunshine!” By slow degrees that hope was extinguished in his lonely soul.  And to-day?  The little bit of reflection was a mockery to him.  He wanted no more twilight.  Daylight was gone for ever—­he longed for darkness.  Night! night!  Night would be so heavy and dark that he would not behold his misery, even inwardly.  He could not think; he felt stifled, giddy, as if someone had struck him on the head with a club.

When the gaoler on his rounds peeped through the spy-hole again and saw the man still lying on the floor, he grew angry.  He noisily opened the little door.  “By Jove, are you still there?  Number 19!  Do you hear?  Is anything the matter?” The last words were spoken almost gently; a stupid fellow might imagine that he was pitied.  But that was not the case.  As a man sows, he reaps.

The prisoner stood up quickly and looked distractedly about him.  When he recognised the gaoler he felt for his hand.  He grasped it firmly, and said hoarsely:  “I want to ask something.  Send me a priest.”