Sam followed him--"Mr. Flint, give me back my comrade." "Impossible!" "Sir," said Sam, in a tone which might have softened the heart of a fiend, "I entreat you, restore Heartall to me. You shall see how well I will work. To you who are free, it is no matter--you do not know what the worth of a friend is; but I have only the four walls of my prison. You can come and go, I have nothing but Heartall--give him back to me. Heartall fed me--you know it well. It will only cost you the trouble of saying yes. What can it be to you that there should be in the same room one man called Sam Needy, another called Heartall?--for the thing is simply that, Mr. Flint; good Mr. Flint, I beseech you earnestly, for Heaven's sake!" Sam had probably never before said so much at one time to a jailer; exhausted with the effort, he paused. The director replied, with an impatient gesture, "Impossible--I have said it; speak to me no more about it, you wear me out." Then, as if in a hurry, he stepped on more quickly, Sam following. Thus speaking, they had reached the door of exit; the prisoners looked after them, and listened breathlessly. Sam gently touched the director's arm. "At least let me know why I am condemned to death--tell me why you have separated him from me?" "I have told you," answered the director; "_it is my will_." He turned his back upon Sam, and was about to take hold of the latch of the door. On this answer Sam had retreated a step; the assembled statues who were there saw him bring out his right hand, and the hatchet with it; it was raised, and ere the victim could utter one cry, three blows, one upon the other, had cleft his skull. At the moment, when he fell back, a fourth blow laid his face open; then, as if his frenzy, once let loose, _could not stop_, Sam struck a fifth blow; it was useless--he was dead. "Now for the other!" cried the murderer, and threw away the hatchet. That other was himself. They saw him draw from his bosom the small pair of scissors, and before any one could attempt to hinder him, bury them in his breast. The blade was too short to penetrate. He struck them in again and again, so many as twenty times. "Accursed heart! cannot I then reach you?" and finally fell in a dead swoon, bathed in his blood. Which of these men was the victim of the other? When Sam returned to consciousness, he was in bed, well attended, his wounds carefully bandaged; a humane nurse was about his pillow, and more than one magistrate, who asked him, with the appearance of great interest, "Are you better?" He had lost a great quantity of blood, but the scissors with which he had wounded himself, had done their duty ill--none of the wounds were dangerous. The examinations commenced. They asked him if it were he who had killed the director of the work-rooms. He replied, "It was." They asked him why he had done it. He answered--_it was his will._