and shoes as I
whisper, "Good bye, boys. I wish I could take you with me." Then the inner
door is opened, the light is lighted, and my cell door swings out.

Some one stands there--I do not know who--I do not care. Listlessly, like
one in a dream, I pick up my cap and coat; and silently, wearily, move out
and toward the bench where I changed my clothes last night. Last night!--a
thousand years ago. The officer--the keeper--the man, whoever he is, who
has come to release me, produces my regular prison uniform; and
listlessly, silently, wearily, I make the change, dropping my jail
garments upon the floor. I feel as if I should like to grind my heels into
the loathsome, hated things.

With a parting look along the row of cells which imprison my comrades, and
choking down my feelings as I think of the sick lad we are leaving without
water, I stumble along the passage to the jail office, pausing only while
my attendant locks behind us the two iron doors. Another moment and I feel
my lungs expand with a deep refreshing breath, and find myself out in the
ghostly quiet of the prison yard.

The morning air is fresh and cool, and there is a soft gray light which
seems to touch soothingly the old gray stones of the prison; but I have a
feeling as if nothing were alive, as if I were a gray, uneasy ghost
visiting a city of the dead. The only thing suggestive of life seems to be
the sound of my heavy shoes upon the stone pavement.

I have a remote impression that my attendant is saying something. Perhaps
I answer him. I think I do, but I am not sure. If so, it is only from the
force of habit, not from any conscious mental process.

We traverse the upper part of the yard and enter the main building. Here
my shoes make such a clatter on the stone floor that my guide looks at
them inquiringly. I do not know whether he recommends their removal or
whether I do it of my own accord; I am only aware that I have taken them
off and am carrying them in my left hand as we mount the iron stairs and
creep quietly along the familiar gallery of the second tier.

At Number 15 we stop, the key is turned in the lock, the lever clicks, the
door opens, and I enter my cell. I think the man says something; I do not
know. I stand motionless just within the door, as it swings to and is
locked. The footsteps of my guide retreat along the gallery, down the
stairs, and so out of hearing.

There is no sound in the cell house. All is silent, as the gray lig