mmock and was
soon in the land of dreams; for I was young and sanguine, and though I
could not help feeling somewhat anxious, it was not the sort of anxiety
which kills sleep. Only once in my life have I tasted the agony of
despair. That time was not yet.

When I awoke the clock of a neighboring church was striking three, and the
rays of a brilliant tropical moon were streaming through the barred window
of my room, making it hardly less light than day.

As the echo of the last stroke dies away, I fancy that I hear something
strike against the grating.

I rise up in my hammock, listening intently, and at the same instant a
small shower of pebbles, flung by an unseen hand, falls into the room.

A signal!

Yes, and a signal that demands an answer. In less time than it takes to
tell I slip from my hammock, gather up the pebbles, climb up to the
window, and drop them into the street. Then, looking out, I can just
discern, deep in the shadow of the building opposite, the figure of a man.
He raises his arm; something white flies over my head and falls on the
floor. Dropping hurriedly from the grating, I pick up the message-bearing
missile--a pebble to which is tied a piece of paper. I can see that the
paper contains writing, and climbing a second time up to the grating, I
make out by the light of the moonbeams the words:

"_If you are condemned, ask for a priest._"

My first feeling was one of bitter disappointment. Why should I ask for a
priest? I was not a Roman Catholic; I did not want to confess. If the
author of the missive was Carera--and who else could it be?--why had he
given himself so much trouble to make so unpleasantly suggestive a
recommendation? A priest, forsooth! A file and a cord would be much more
to the purpose.... But might not the words mean more than appeared? Could
it be that Carera desired to give me a friendly hint to prepare for the
worst?... Or was it possible that the ghostly man would bring me a further
message and help me in some way to escape? At any rate, it was a more
encouraging theory than the other, and I resolved to act on it. If the
priest did me no good, he could, at least, do me no harm.

After tearing up the bit of paper and chewing the fragments, I returned to
my hammock and lay awake--sleep being now out of the question--until the
turnkey brought me a cup of chocolate, of which, with the remains of the
loaf, I made my first breakfast. About the middle of the day he brought me