All these are signs not to be disregarded; I know something is about to happen; I lie in bed and watch for it. Outside, I know that nature is cool and gray—delightful. I wait; it comes. The fierce yellow light begins to fade from out the electric globes; and finally, as it becomes less intense, each little red wire is visible; which fades into pink and disappears. The fearful light, the cruel, torturing, piercing light is gone. And that is how dawn comes to us in the Death-Chamber. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _CHAPTER XX_ _Impressions_ _While the Jury is Out—The First Jury_ It is said that everything is relative. A fixed period of time, for instance, is either long or short, according to circumstances. There is an exception to this rule. Time is always long while the jury is out. Be this period eight hours or six minutes in duration, either constitutes a life-time. I know, for I have experienced both. To a man whose brain is analytical, here is a splendid opportunity to administer to his mind some of its own medicine. While the first jury considered my case I noted my impressions in my little red diary, for, thought I, this is a road over which few travellers pass; it is really a unique experience, an episode in a life. I will record my impressions. That jury was most considerate; it did not hurry me in the slightest; it was out eight hours. I started to record my impressions while the second jury deliberated; it interrupted me in six minutes—but I have forgiven it. Here are the thoughts which came to me during the period at the end of my first trial; but before I quote from my note-book—it will be unnecessary to open it, for I shall never forget what is inside—it may be of interest to know the circumstances under which the entries were written. My trial for murder is almost over. The evidence against me has all been given—there was none offered in my defence, for technical reasons. The closing arguments by counsels have been made; the judge has charged the jury, and the jury is out. My fate rests upon the knees of the gods. All of which means that I am in a little iron pen, and that twelve men occupy the next room, deliberating whether life or death shall be my portion. I am very tired; for full three months I have been under a physical strain and a mental tension—I have been falsely accused, I am innocent. There are three who know this—myself, the man who did the murder, and God. February 10, 1900. The first entry at 3.30 o’clock P.M.