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“His face got white. He asked me if I meant that, and I said, ‘Yes; before God, I do.’ Then he took the whip in both hands and came down with all his might.”

“That was nearly two years ago,” said the chairman. “You would not kill him now, would you?”

“Yes. I will kill him if I get a chance; and I feel it in me that the chance will come.”

“Well, proceed.”

“He kept on whipping me. He whipped me with all the strength of both hands. I could feel the broken skin curl upon my back, and when my head got too heavy to hold it straight it hung down, and I saw the blood on my legs and dripping off my toes into a pool of it on the floor. Something was straining and twisting inside of me again. My back didn’t hurt much; it was the thing twisting inside of me that hurt. I counted the lashes, and when I counted to twenty-eight the twisting got so hard that it choked me and blinded me;… and when I woke up I was in the dungeon again, and the doctor had my back all plastered up, and he was kneeling beside me, feeling my pulse.”

The prisoner had finished. He looked around vaguely, as though he wanted to go.

“And you have been in the dungeon ever since?”

“Yes, sir; but I don’t mind that.”

“How long?”

“Twenty-three months.”

“On bread and water?”

“Yes; but that was all I wanted.”

“Have you reflected that so long as you harbor a determination to kill the warden you may be kept in the dungeon? You can’t live much longer there, and if you die there you will never find the chance you want. If you say you will not kill the warden he may return you to the cells.”

“But that would be a lie, sir; I will get a chance to kill him if I go to the cells. I would rather die in the dungeon than be a liar and sneak. If you send me to the cells I will kill him. But I will kill him without that. I will kill him, sir…. And he knows it.”

Without concealment, but open, deliberate, and implacable, thus in the wrecked frame of a man, so close that we could have touched it, stood Murder–not boastful, but relentless as death.

“Apart from weakness, is your health good?” asked the chairman.

“Oh, it’s good enough,” wearily answered the convict. “Sometimes the twisting comes on, but when I wake up after it I’m all right.”

The prison surgeon, under the chairman’s direction, put his ear to the convict’s chest, and then went over and whispered to the chairman.

“I thought so,” said that gentleman. “Now, take this man to the hospital. Put him to bed where the sun will shine on him, and give him the most nourishing food.”

The convict, giving no heed to this, shambled out with a guard and the surgeon.

*****

The warden sat alone in the prison office with No. 14,208. That he at last should have been brought face to face, and alone, with the man whom he had determined to kill, perplexed the convict. He was not manacled; the door was locked, and the key lay on the table between the two men. Three weeks in the hospital had proved beneficial, but a deathly pallor was still in his face.

“The action of the directors three weeks ago,” said the warden, “make my resignation necessary. I have awaited the appointment of my successor, who is now in charge. I leave the prison to-day. In the meantime, I have something to tell you that will interest you. A few days ago a man who was discharged from the prison last year read what the papers have published recently about your case, and he has written to me confessing that it was he who got your tobacco from the captain of the guard. His name is Salter, and he looks very much like you. He had got his own extra, and when he came up again and called for yours the captain, thinking it was you, gave it to him. There was no intention on the captain’s part to rob you.”