During his imprisonment he had often asked for work, but was always informed that nothing of the sort had been provided for by the authorities.  Besides—­work was an honourable thing, and it must first be proved that he was worthy of it.  But now it was not a time for work, rather a time for preparation.  What could he do in order to get through these days?  Or what could he do in order to keep the days from flying so quickly?  Look how a flash of lightning seems sometimes to pass over the floor.  Then it is gone again.  High up in the opposite wall, on which the sun sometimes shone, was a casement window, and its glass doors, swayed by the breeze, were reflected in the prison.  Konrad was terrified by these sparks from heaven; he would grope on the ground as if for a gold piece that had rolled away.

Then came visitors, unexpected, alarming visitors!  The judge’s stiff figure and serious face appeared in company with the gaoler.

Konrad felt stunned, and could only think:  “The hour has come!” The man had pronounced his sentence as coldly and unfeelingly as if he had been a machine which, when its keys are pressed, gives forth sounds like words.  The judge ordered the gaoler to withdraw.  The old man hesitated—­what could that mean?  The judge had to repeat his order before the old man would go.  When the judge was alone with the prisoner, he bent down and felt with his hands, for he was not yet accustomed to the darkness.  Then he said kindly:  “Konrad Ferleitner, I have come to ask you if there’s anything you wish for?”

The prisoner wrung his hands convulsively; wild pulsations, that beat in strong double strokes at irregular intervals, coursed through his body.  So violent was his agitation that the poor wretch stuttered forth words that the judge could not understand.

“Compose yourself!”

When he caught the words “Father-confessor!” amid the sounds uttered by the prisoner, it occurred to the judge that the poor fellow imagined that the hour of execution had arrived.  “Ferleitner,” he said, “come and sit by me on the bench.  You think it’s the end—­no, it hasn’t come so far yet, and perhaps it won’t come so far at all.  I may tell you that a petition for mercy has been sent to His Majesty.”

Konrad looked up as if in a dream, and the dim light showed how terribly pale and sunken his cheeks were.  “Mercy!” he muttered in suppressed tones.  “Mercy for me?  Then—­why did you condemn me?”

The question appeared to puzzle the judge.  The delinquent seemed in all seriousness to think himself innocent.  “You were there yourself, Ferleitner, and heard how the jury decided after listening to the witnesses.  After that the judge must condemn; he has no choice.”

“For mercy?  The king?” asked Konrad, who, more bewildered than consoled, had sat down on the bench, for his legs would scarcely support him.