Click! Click! Click! Click! I had no idea it was possible to hear the sounds from the south wing, 'way in here. And it is still so early in the morning--only half past four. Click! Click! Click! It must be the prisoners who work in the kitchens, they are the only ones who would be moving at such an hour. But again, how is it possible to hear them so far away, shut in as we are by stone walls and iron doors? Uneasily I shift my position and turn over on my left side, which feels temporarily less bruised and painful than the other. The clicking stops. But other vague sounds succeed; and then suddenly---- Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! It is the march of the gray companies down the stone walk of the yard. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! It is certainly not only the kitchen gang, for there must be many companies of them. Tramp! Tramp---- But this is ridiculous, at half past four in the morning! It can't be true, it must be my imagination. I am not really hearing these sounds, for my reason tells me they are impossible. Nevertheless I do hear them. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! I try in vain to reason myself out of the evidences of my senses. I am hearing sounds that I am sure do not exist. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp---- Heavens! Am I going mad? This is past bearing. I abandon the attempt to sleep and sit up. As I do so the cell is suddenly filled with flying sparks which dance from one end to the other. Aghast, I steady myself with my back against the side of the cell. This is getting serious. I grit my teeth together, and, shutting my eyes in the hope of keeping out the sight of the flitting sparks, I say firmly to myself, "This must not be. Don't lose your nerve. Cool down. Control yourself. Slow up. Keep steady." As I rise to my feet my head seems to clear, the sparks disappear, the sound of marching footsteps had already ceased. There is nothing to see or hear--only the dreadful blackness and the dead silence of the night. I take two turns about the cell, carefully refraining from kicking over the bucket in the corner, and then stand close to the grating, in the hope of a breath of cool, fresh air. But there is no such thing in this foetid place. "Joe! Are you awake?" "Hello! What's the matter?" "For God's sake talk to me!" "Sure! What shall we talk about?" "Anything. I don't care. Only something." So Joe begins to chat with me, and presently Number Two joins in, and Number Five has a few words to say. What we talk about I have not the faintest recollection; it is the only part of this night's occurrences that makes no impression whatever on my memory. I only know that I am longing for speedy escape as I have seldom longed for anything; that I am saying constantly to myself, "It can't be more than an hour more! They must surely come in about forty minutes! Half an hour! Half an hour! It can't go beyond that! Oh, why don't they come?" I answer any remarks directed to me quite at random, for I am waiting, waiting, waiting, and listening.