So a barred door clanged upon Jurgis and he sat down upon a bench and buried his face in his hands.  He was alone; he had the afternoon and all of the night to himself.

At first he was like a wild beast that has glutted itself; he was in a dull stupor of satisfaction.  He had done up the scoundrel pretty well—­not as well as he would have if they had given him a minute more, but pretty well, all the same; the ends of his fingers were still tingling from their contact with the fellow’s throat.  But then, little by little, as his strength came back and his senses cleared, he began to see beyond his momentary gratification; that he had nearly killed the boss would not help Ona—­not the horrors that she had borne, nor the memory that would haunt her all her days.  It would not help to feed her and her child; she would certainly lose her place, while he—­what was to happen to him God only knew.

Half the night he paced the floor, wrestling with this nightmare; and when he was exhausted he lay down, trying to sleep, but finding instead, for the first time in his life, that his brain was too much for him.  In the cell next to him was a drunken wife-beater and in the one beyond a yelling maniac.  At midnight they opened the station house to the homeless wanderers who were crowded about the door, shivering in the winter blast, and they thronged into the corridor outside of the cells.  Some of them stretched themselves out on the bare stone floor and fell to snoring, others sat up, laughing and talking, cursing and quarreling.  The air was fetid with their breath, yet in spite of this some of them smelled Jurgis and called down the torments of hell upon him, while he lay in a far corner of his cell, counting the throbbings of the blood in his forehead.

They had brought him his supper, which was “duffers and dope”—­being hunks of dry bread on a tin plate, and coffee, called “dope” because it was drugged to keep the prisoners quiet.  Jurgis had not known this, or he would have swallowed the stuff in desperation; as it was, every nerve of him was aquiver with shame and rage.  Toward morning the place fell silent, and he got up and began to pace his cell; and then within the soul of him there rose up a fiend, red-eyed and cruel, and tore out the strings of his heart.

It was not for himself that he suffered—­what did a man who worked in Durham’s fertilizer mill care about anything that the world might do to him!  What was any tyranny of prison compared with the tyranny of the past, of the thing that had happened and could not be recalled, of the memory that could never be effaced!  The horror of it drove him mad; he stretched out his arms to heaven, crying out for deliverance from it—­and there was no deliverance, there was no power even in heaven that could undo the past.  It was a ghost that would not drown; it followed him, it seized upon him and beat him to the ground.  Ah, if only he could have foreseen it—­but then, he would have foreseen it,