Sometimes he played _morra_ with himself, and he cared so much whether he lost or won that he would laugh aloud like a child. At other times he would sit for hours looking at his outstretched palm, imagining that it was a plain divided into _tancas_, with walls, rivers, trees, herds of cattle, and shepherds; and weaving stories about them all, full of exciting adventures. And sometimes he prayed, counting on his fingers, and repeating the lauds aloud, trying even to improvise new verses. In this way it came about that he actually did compose a laud of four strophes, dedicated to St. Costantino, in which the saint's aid was particularly invoked in behalf of all prisoners wrongfully condemned. The refrain ran: "Saint Costantino, we implore thee For thy condemned innocent!" The composing of this laud completely occupied him for many days, and made him, for the time being, almost happy. When it was finished he was wild with joy, but instantly an overpowering desire to tell some one about it seized him; whom was there, though, to tell? The guard was a little Neapolitan; bald, clean-shaven, with a flat, snub nose like that of a skeleton; he talked to him sometimes, but he was not sufficiently intelligent to understand the laud; then there were the other prisoners whom he saw during the exercise hour, but to them he was not allowed to speak; finally he bethought him of the chaplain, and asked to confess in order that he might have the opportunity to repeat the laud to him. The chaplain was a Northerner, a young man, tall and lean, with quick, nervous movements, and great flashing black eyes filled with intelligence. He listened patiently while Costantino repeated his laud, and then enquired if he did not think that, in asking to confess for the purpose of reciting it, he had been guilty of the sin of vanity. Costantino reddened and said "No," whereupon the confessor smiled indulgently, reassured him, praised his verses, and sent him off in a state of beatification. A few days later the prisoner again asked to confess. "Well, have you written another laud?" asked the chaplain. "No," said the other, looking down, "but I want to ask a favour." "What is it? Let us hear." Costantino held his breath a moment, frightened at his own temerity; then he said quickly: "Well, this is it: I want to send the laud home!" "Ah!" said the chaplain, "I can't do that; how could you write it, anyhow?" "Oh, I know how to write!" exclaimed the prisoner, raising his clear eyes to the other's face. "Yes; but the trouble is, my brother, that you are not allowed to write." "Oh, I can manage that!" "Well, well, but I can't; I can't do it."