disguised
others; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor,
still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that is
commonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, with
crime.

The clergyman's chair was in the centre of the floor. Ristofalo sat
facing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tipped
against the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted
young Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across
a corner of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ristofalo
remarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment, that the rector had
preached to the assembled inmates of the prison on the Sunday previous.

"Did I say anything that you thought was true?" asked the minister.

The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never failed him.

"Didn't listen much," he said. He drew from a pocket of his black
velveteen pantaloons a small crumpled tract. It may have been a favorite
one with the clergyman, for the youth against the wall produced its
counterpart, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on his elbow,
and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite arm and both legs, drew a
third one from a tin cup that rested on a greasy shelf behind him. The
Irishman held his between his fingers and smirked a little toward the
floor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched the
caption with one finger: "Mercy offered."

"Well," asked the rector, pleasantly, "what's the matter with that?"

"Is no use yeh. Wrong place--this prison."

"Um-hm," said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf and
smoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. "Well, why
shouldn't mercy be offered here?"

"No," replied Ristofalo, still smiling; "ought offer justice first."

"Mr. Preacher," asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the
front, and swinging them under the table, "d'ye vote?"

"Yes; I vote."

"D'ye call yerself a cidizen--with a cidizen's rights an' djuties?"

"I do."

"That's right." There was a deep sea of insolence in the smooth-faced,
red-eyed smile that accompanied the commendation. "And how manny times
have ye bean in this prison?"

"I don't know; eight or ten times. That rather beats you, doesn't it?"

Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping cackle, and the
Irishman laughed the heartiest of all.

"A little," he said; "a little. But nivver mind. Ye say ye've bin here