below the clicking of levers and the
tread of marching feet. A shiver goes through me as I think of the last
time I heard such sounds. But those were imaginary, these are real. Soon,
bucket in hand, I am once more traversing the long gallery and falling in
line with the rest of my company at the yard door. The prisoners whose
faces I can see are eyeing me curiously, and in a vague way I am wondering
whether I bear any outward marks of the jail. I feel as if I must have
somewhere upon me an unmistakable stamp of it, which may be a
disfigurement for the rest of my life.

Sharply the Captain gives the signal and we set off on our march down the
yard. I know it is sunny, for I can see the shadows of the trees upon the
ground, but all things look unfamiliar and unreal. I go through the usual
motions, but I am not thinking of what I am doing, or of anything else,
for that matter. Everything seems cold, lifeless, dead. Yet I am conscious
of making an effort to do my duty cheerfully. I have a curious feeling of
being two people at once. One going through the regular routine, and the
other watching him as he does it.

One of my selves seems to be at a distance looking at the other self as he
marches down the yard, empties his bucket at the sewage disposal building,
and then, without pausing at the stands, marches up the yard again. There
was a gleam of satisfaction in my passive self at the thought that my
active self was going to leave the bucket behind, and that I should never
see it again. But that mild pleasure is denied me. Of course on Sunday the
buckets are needed in the cells, as the men are locked up after chapel
services for the rest of the day. I had not thought of that.

On our way back I seem to be saying to myself, "You poor fellow! If you
were not so dead tired, you'd march better." And then I feel rather
indignant at myself for the criticism.

Arrived back in my cell, it seems to occur vaguely to one of my two
selves--I do not know which--that there is something I have to do to-day.
Breakfast of course. But after that--Oh, yes--the chapel. I am expected to
speak. I shake my head and shut my eyes, feeling ill at the thought. To
speak! I feel upon my lips the ghost of a smile at the bare notion. How
absurd for any one to think I could do such a thing!

Nevertheless something must be done. I ought to send word to the Chaplain
that I can't speak. How can I send it? I cannot think. Somehow the idea of
blue floats