If I had the pluck to carry out my intention," thought the old man, "Suspicion would fall
first upon the watchman."
He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the entry of the lodge. Then
he groped his way into a little passage and lighted a match. There was not a soul there.
There was a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron
stove. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner's rooms were intact.
When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped through the little
window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner's room. He was sitting at the table.
Nothing could be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open books were
lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the table.
Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years' imprisonment had
taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at the window with his finger, and the prisoner
made no movement whatever in response. Then the banker cautiously broke the seals off
the door and put the key in the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door
creaked. The banker expected to hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three
minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever in the room. He made up his mind to go in.
At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a skeleton with
the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman's and a shaggy beard. His
face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow,
and the hand on which his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicate that it was
dreadful to look at it. His hair was already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated,
aged-looking face, no one would have believed that he was only forty. He was asleep. . . . In
front of his bowed head there lay on the table a sheet of paper on which there was
something written in fine handwriting.
"Poor creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likely dreaming of the millions.
And I have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the
pillow, and the most conscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death. But let us
first read what he has written here. . . ."
The banker took the page from the table and read as follows:
"To-morrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to associate with other
men, but before I leave this room and see the sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few
words to you. With a clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, that I
despise freedom and life and health, and all that in your books is called the good things of
the world.
"For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the
earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have
hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women. . . . Beauties as ethereal as
clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have
whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have
climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and
have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and
crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the
storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing
of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely
devils who flew down to converse with me of God. . . . In your books I have flung myself
into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions,
conquered whole kingdoms. . . .