He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide, nor indeed had he thought much about it; the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He had even no definite idea as to what manner of death to choose; all that mattered was to be done with it quickly--to have it over and forget. He had no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife; but that was of no consequence--a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips. There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it was not quite firm, and he stepped down again and took a hammer from a drawer. He knocked in the nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his bed, when he suddenly remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of course, one must pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are even special prayers for a departing soul. He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix. “Almighty and merciful God----” he began aloud; and with that broke off and said no more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left to pray for--or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble of this kind--Christ, who had never suffered it? He had only been betrayed, like Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying. Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table, he saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's handwriting. It was in pencil: “My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying man. I shall not get back till late at night. Come to me early to-morrow morning. In great haste, “L. M.” He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre. How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets! Nothing was altered since the days when he had been alive. Not the least little one of all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a living human soul, had been struck down dead. It was all just the same as before. The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had twittered under the eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow. And as for him, he was dead--quite dead. He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms along the foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them. There was plenty of time; and his head ached so--the very middle of the brain seemed to ache; it was all so dull and stupid--so utterly meaningless---- ***** The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started up in a breathless agony of terror, with both hands at his throat. They had come back--he had sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away--and now he must see their faces and hear their cruel tongues--their sneers and comments--If only he had a knife------