When I went to see him in Pentonville, where he was known as ‘that there tall _I_talian with the strong beard, wot carries ’is ’ead so ’igh’ (certainly Eugene’s origin was half Greek, but then it was _all_ Greek to the warders--hence the _I_talian), he talked cheerfully enough, poor chap, and without any bitterness as to the past. As to the future, he put it away; he had to ‘face the music,’ and in doing that he was hard enough put to it to ‘carry ’is ’ead ’igh’ in the present, without thinking of the future. I suppose he realised to a certain degree what it would be like to ‘come out,’ but not greatly, for he told me that he felt exactly like a wrecked man flung on a desert island, when, on a February morning, with his certificate of discharge in his pocket, he walked out of Rochester Gaol into the world. So feeling, he strolled to the end of the street, and there the sense of having lived his life pressed so strongly upon him that he stood debating dazedly whether he would not go back, and ask to be taken in again. He even took some steps in the direction of the prison, till the absurdity of the idea presented itself to his mind. He shook himself like a dog, and, pulling up before a shop window, looked long and critically at his image in the plate-glass. It was a presentable reflection, tall, straight, well-clothed; he took off his hat, and replaced it quickly with a shudder; he registered a mental vow not to remove his gloves for some days; he gazed at his upper lip blankly, it did not seem to fit in with his surroundings; finally he turned out his pockets--one pound fifteen shillings and sixpence. This pantomime he went through mechanically, with the feeling that he must do something rational, something practical, however trifling, to save him from thought; and the next moment, the black waves of despair came rolling in over his flimsy breakwater one after the other, driving him with head down and huge strides anywhere away from his fellows. _This_ was the tug; anything that had gone before was child’s play to _this_. Out into a world that could look, and point and whisper the words ‘Convicted felon!’ to which there was no answer. It had been different in there; what were the words but the common property of all? It was easy enough to hold one’s head up in that dim world; but outside it, where everything was so clear and bright, where the light was strong--he cursed the sun; where everyone could and would read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest his shame; where he was branded like any poor devil of a sheep on a bush run. He flung himself down in a field, and--well, there are some things that are best left alone, and the full tide of a strong man’s humiliation is one of them. Two hours later, Eugene walked into Rochester Station, his brow knit and his head thrown back, and cursing his fate silently in his heart. He took a first single to London.