Then Konrad, looking down on the floor, said:  “I should like to have writing materials.”

“You want to write?” asked the Judge.

“If I might ask for paper, pens, and ink,” returned Konrad.  “In former years I used to like writing down my thoughts—­just as they came, I had little education.”

“You wish to write to your friends?” inquired the judge.

“Oh no!  If I had any, they’d be glad not to hear from me,” said Konrad.

“Or to draw up a plea of justification?”

“No.”

“Or an account of your life?”

“No, not that either.  My life has not been good enough.  Misfortune should be forgotten rather than recorded.  No, I think I can write something else,” stated Konrad.

“You shall have writing materials,” said the judge.  “And is there anything else?  A more comfortable bed?”

“No, thank you.  It’s right enough as it is.  If a hard bed was the only thing——­”

“And is everything kept properly neat and clean?” interrupted the judge.

“If you’re always waiting and thinking, ‘Now, now, they’re coming!’ I tell you, sir, you don’t sleep well,” replied Konrad.

“Don’t keep worrying yourself with ideas, Ferleitner,” said the judge warningly to the man, who had again worked himself up into a state of excitement.  “Not one of us knows what the next hour may bring, and yet we live on calmly.  Use the time,” he continued playfully, “in avenging your condemnation by some great literary work.  In olden times great minds often did it.”

“I can’t write a great work,” answered Konrad.  “And I’ve nothing to avenge.  I deserve death.  But it’s this waiting for it.  The torments of hell cannot be worse.”

“We’ve nothing to do with hell.  We’ve merely to think of the purgatory in which we are placed.  Let heaven, as they say, follow.  Haven’t you any business to arrange?  Nothing to settle for anyone?” asked the judge.

“No one, no one!” Konrad assured him.

“That’s a piece of luck that many of your comrades in misfortune would envy you.  A man can settle things easily for himself alone.  If it’s any consolation, Ferleitner, I may tell you that we don’t regard you as a scoundrel, only as a poor creature who has been led astray.  Now that’s enough for the present.  Your modest request shall be granted at once.”

After this remarkable conversation with the poor sinner, the judge left the cell.  He was not satisfied.  Had he not listened enough, or had he spoken too much?  How could so childlike a creature take an oath to commit murder?  In the corridor he spoke seriously to the gaoler.

“I must point out to you that the man is very ill.  Don’t treat him harshly.”

The old man was annoyed.

“I beg your pardon, sir!  To treat a poor devil like that harshly!  If you pity him, why were you so rough with him?” He rubbed a lamp-glass with a coarse rag in order to get the black off. “‘To die by hanging.’  Even said as gently as that, it hurts more than when we roundly abuse the people, and yet that’s at once taken amiss.  Only to prove it.  Ill!  Of course he’s ill, poor devil.  I am only surprised the doctors haven’t been to cure him.  I suppose he’s well enough to be hanged?”