"Yes," replied Costantino, and raised his terrified eyes as far as the fat, red hand resting on the desk, with a ring on one finger having a purple stone; and between the thumb and forefinger, the stiff, black point of the pen. Not knowing where to fix his perplexed gaze, Costantino followed the movements of this pen, conscious all the while only of a feeling of supreme agony, as when one dreams that he is about to be swallowed up in a cataclysm. The hard voice was speaking again, in a low, measured tone. "You know, of course, that your wife's whole life has been ruined by your fault. Young, handsome, and blameless, the rest of her days must be spent in struggle and privation. The world holds out no promise of happiness for her, and yet she has never done any harm at all. As long as your child lived she endured her lot patiently, her hopes were fixed upon him. But now that he is dead what has she left? When you return to her,--if, indeed, God should be so merciful as to allow you to do so,--you will be old, broken-down, useless, and she will be the same. She sees stretching before her a terrible future--nothing but sorrow, shame, poverty, and a miserable old age. No resource but to beg; thus her life is a worse punishment even than yours----" Costantino, as white as death, panting, agonising, tried to protest, to say that he would surely be liberated before long, but the words died away on his lips; the other, meanwhile, gave him no chance, but pursued his theme in smooth, even tones, his dull eyes never leaving the prisoner's face. "Her life is thus a worse punishment even than yours. You should think of these things, and, abandoning all hope, repent doubly of your crime." He cleared his throat, and then continued in a different tone: "Now, however, the law has provided a means by which this great injustice can be rectified. You of course know very well that an act of divorce has gone into effect which enables a woman whose husband is guilty of a certain class of crime, to marry again. Should your wife--sit down, keep quiet--should your wife apply for such a divorce, it would be your duty to grant it at once. I know that you are, or pretend to be, after all, a good Christian----" Costantino, who was leaning on the table, shaking in every limb, but making a heroic effort to control himself, now broke in. "Has she applied for it?" he demanded. "Sit down, sit down there," said the other, motioning with his pen; he wanted to continue his harangue, but Costantino again spoke, in a clear, firm voice that contrasted strangely with the trembling of his limbs. "I know my duty perfectly," he said, "and I shall never give my consent. I shall undoubtedly be freed before very long, and then my wife would bitterly repent of her mistake." Two deep wrinkles furrowed the red cheeks of the lecturer, and an ugly smile shone from his dull eyes.