The man’s crime, his history, does not affect this story, but his personality does. He was the quietest man of all; and men who are waiting death are usually quiet men. A German by nationality, very gentle, almost affectionate one would think, from the fact that he caught and tamed a small mouse to which he seemed devoted. Now a mouse is a rare thing within the precinct of which I speak, for stone and steel do not offer it the crevices it affects. But the German—he was called “Professor” because he wore glasses—had asked when he arrived if any mice had been tamed. “You can teach them tricks,” he said. He used to sleep all day, and at night very patiently lay and watched the bread crumbs he scattered on the floor. He did this for months; and at last the great event occurred. Can you guess what he used for a trap? His stocking. He did teach the mouse tricks. He taught it to eat meat out of his hand, which was not difficult, and to come when he called, which was. It slept with him. This took patience. Remember, he had no string with which to tie it, and had to keep it under his drinking cup at first to prevent its running away. Time went by. Winter changed to summer, and with that season came a letter to the “Professor” and a death warrant to the warden. This was for the “Professor” also; that is, it was to be read to him, and—was it sympathy, or what? Death came to the little mouse at that time. I suppose that every man would confess that it is disturbing to receive the news that he must go through the “little door” in the Death-Chamber into the beyond, and so it affected the “Professor,” philosopher though he undoubtedly was. Perhaps it was not the news, but the loss of his little friend; perhaps it was both; at any rate the “Professor” took to his bed. The prison doctor came, winked at the keeper, and said, “Fright; let him alone.” So they let the “Professor” alone, and the “Professor” died; but when they went into the cell, they found the cause of his illness had not been fright at all. It was erysipelas. Over his breast were long scratches, deep as little teeth could make them (we have no pins in the Death-Chamber), and flattened down on them and tightly bound lay the putrid remains of “the little dead mouse.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _CHAPTER III_ _A Forbidden Song_ Sometimes in the evenings, the Death-Chamber seemed quite a different place, and we all forgot our _ennui_ because some one started a song. I have heard good singing there, and some of us understood music. So when “Eddy,” with his really good tenor, would start up something we all knew, books would close and pipes go out, and we all would join in and sing ourselves out of the blues.