and a bit of soap.  In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end.  There is a dark ventilator under the window, and another over the door.  Falder’s work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel “Lorna Doone” lies open.  Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall.  There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it.  Three bright round tins are set under the window.

In fast-failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening.  He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise.  He stops at the door.  He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside.  He springs suddenly upright—­as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless.  Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head doom; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life.  Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage.  He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron.  Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall.  He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it.  It has grown very nearly dark.  Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter—­the only sound that has broken the silence—­and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness—­he seems to be seeing somebody or something there.  There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up.  The cell is brightly lighted.  Falder is seen gasping for breath.

A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible.  Falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour.  But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell.  And gradually it seems to hypnotise him.  He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door.  The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder’s hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell.  He suddenly raises his clenched fists.  Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it.

The curtain falls.

ACT IV