He did not renounce the devil, but sold Himself. Do you understand? Does
not that passage in the Gospels seem doubtful to you?"

Extreme fright was expressed on the face of my young friend. Forcing
the palms of his hands against my chest, as if to push me away, he
ejaculated in a voice so low that I could hardly hear his indistinct
words:

"What? You say Jesus sold Himself? What for?"

I explained softly:

"That the people, my child, that the people should believe Him."

"Well?"

I smiled. K.'s eyes became round, as if a noose was strangling him.
Suddenly, with that lack of respect for old age which was one of his
characteristics, he threw me down on the bed with a sharp thrust and
jumped away into a corner. When I was slowly getting up from the awkward
position into which the unrestraint of that young man had forced me--I
fell backward, with my head between the pillow and the back of the
bed--he cried to me loudly:

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare get up, you Devil."

But I did not think of rising to my feet. I simply sat down on the bed,
and, thus seated, with an involuntary smile at the passionate outburst
of the youth, I shook my head good naturedly and laughed.

"Oh, young man, young man! You yourself have drawn me into this
theological conversation."

But he stared at me stubbornly, wide eyed, and kept repeating:

"Sit there, sit there! I did not say this. No, no!"

"You said it, you, young man--you. Do you remember Spain, the picture
gallery! You said it and now you deny it, mocking my clumsy old age.
Oh!"

K. suddenly lowered his hands and admitted in a low voice:

"Yes. I said it. But you, old man--"

I do not remember what he said after that--it is so hard to recall all
the childish chatter of this kind, but unfortunately too light-minded
young man. I remember only that we parted as friends, and he pressed my
hand warmly, expressing to me his sincere gratitude, even calling me, so
far as I can remember, his "saviour."

By the way, I succeeded in convincing the Warden that the portrait of
even such a man as I, after all a prisoner, was out of place in such a
solemn official room as the office of our prison. And now the portrait
hangs on the wall of my cell, pleasantly breaking the cold monotony of
the pure white walls.

Leaving for a time our artist, who is now carried away by the portrait
of the Warden, I shall continue my story.

CHAPTER VII

My spiritual clearness, as I had th