are you chattering about? Put on your
house clothes."

The convict went up to the gaoler, clasped his hands, and said: "Only
one thing, if I knew--when, when? This suspense is unbearable!"

"Eh! how impatient we are!" mocked the old man. "My dear fellow, we
don't do things so quickly. The decision was only made yesterday.
Why, they haven't yet settled about the banquet."

"The banquet!"

"The bill of fare--don't you understand? No orders have come yet.
You're safe for twenty-four hours. But if there's anything you'd like
to eat--I'll make an exception for once. And now, get on with your
toilet! You can will away your own things as you please," he pointed
to his clothes. "Have you anyone? No? Well, I know some poor people.
But get on, get on. The hot season is coming on, and cotton isn't bad
wear then."

The rough gaoler's good-humoured chatter was particularly distasteful
to the poor man. To be snubbed and railed at would have pointed to a
long life to come, one not to be measured by hours. Did he know? And
was he silent out of pity? or was it malice? Before, the old man had
been easily moved to anger, and when heated would swing his arms up and
down and plainly threaten to have the obstinate convict sent off. Now
there was no more grim humour nor raging round. He looked at the poor
sinner, sunk in deep gloom, with a sad calmness. "Poor devil!"
Suddenly it was too much for him, and he broke out violently: "But come
now! You must have known it. Be sensible; I can't stand this misery.
Dying is not easy, of course; you should be glad that there's someone
by to help. And then--who knows whether you won't live after all. Do
be sensible!"

When at last deep silence again gathered round him, the prisoner tried
his books afresh. The Father had provided for a varied taste. The
"Devotion to the Holy Rosary," the "Prayers to the Virgin's Heart,"
"Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell," the "Life of St. Theresa," "The
Seven Bolts of Heaven," and "Prayers of Intercession for Souls in
Distress." What a wealth of edification! The joiner's apprentice had
always loved books. He had once reckoned out as a joke that three
asses could not carry the books which he had read since his childhood.
They had afforded him a glimpse of all times and places, and of all
provinces of human life. Now he asked himself what it had all brought
him. Confusion, perplexity, nothing besides. He had thought about
everything,