The cells were somewhat larger than the others, but not much. Here stood a man in the centre of the floor, his hands pressed against his forehead. By his side were pen and ink and paper on a table, and a plain, straight-backed wooden chair stood beside it. After a while he sat down and drew the pen and paper to him. He began to write, and wrote steadily for some time. Then the speed began to slacken, till at last he stopped. He made one more attempt to continue, but evidently he recognised it as hopeless. He put the pen down and got up. Again he stood in the middle of the floor, holding both temples as if trying to force something back that would not stay. After some time so spent he again sat down, and again began at the same even, quick rate. But the same result followed and once more he got up. I noticed the same thing with him that I had noticed in the man and woman down below: which was, that his breath came in thick, heavy gasps, as if he were suffering extreme pain. “It has gone—quite gone,” he groaned. And he sat down and cried as miserably as any lost child might have done. Vestasian took up one of the papers and glanced at it. He put it down and smiled. “This has been going on for a very long time,” he said. “If he would only use breadth of mind and forget things there would be some hope for him.” “What else is there to think about?” I asked. “Nothing.” And he walked to the door, and after we had gone out locked it once more. From there he went on to the next cell. I was surprised on entering to find it much higher and larger than any of the rest had been. A sculptor stood beside a block of marble, and he was transforming it into a very beautiful piece of work. He worked at marvellous speed, or at least so it appeared to me, but time there is often deceptive. His pleasure and absorption were very evident, as indeed were mine, for his sure touch and exact precision were well worth watching. He had built up a marvellous statue, but as he stood back, with all an artist’s keen criticism, to view the work, it suddenly vanished more quickly than it had come, and left only the spiritless stone. I turned at last to look at him. He was staring at it with a heartbreaking look of fear and dull despair. He went towards it and passed his trembling hands over the surface. Then he came back, and I heard the same heavy gasps, which seemed somehow as if they sent their pain into everything around. “I—I—it’s all a dream,” he muttered huskily, passing his hand before his eyes. “But it keeps coming, and the more beautiful I make it, the quicker it fades away.” “It’s your imagination,” suggested Vestasian. “There’s no beauty in it, or if there was, try again. This time you may be more successful.” But he sat down and shook his head. “When I awake,” he said, “I’ll try again. I am tired, and the dream is too, too real. It has been going on all the night, and the night is one endless spell of blackness and false, fierce hope.”