givers and judges of the land were placed for some days in the same conditions as these of a condemned man in a cell with such an inscription on its walls, there never would be death sentences pronounced in the society of the twentieth century. And possibly, I thought, if a criminal who merits death at the hands of the law could read this simple but mystically terrible inscription, he might be led to weep over his deeds and to curse his crimes for ever, cleansing his heart and soul in a way unknown to the criminal code and to judges, who think logically and loyally but at the same time with coldness and indifference. The inscription remained, while he who wrote it reposes somewhere in a corner of the military burying ground in a grave without a cross, near which no one will weep or sigh; yet, after the death of this author of the words scratched on the walls of his prison cell, there remained those who carried wounds in their hearts and a changeless memory of the man who to them was good, dear and beloved.
On that first morning in Cell No. 5 of the military prison I was ready to add an inscription to that of my predecessor and only refrained from doing it out of fear of hearing once more those sacramental words, degrading to me and to him who pronounced them:
"It is not allowed! I shall shoot."
I looked at my watch and found it was nearly seven o'clock. After another hour I heard a slight commotion in the corridor, accompanied by a broken conversation. The face of the soldier disappeared from the grille, a key rasped in the lock and the Public Prosecutor, Miller, and Colonel Fiedorenko of the gendarmes walked into my cell.
"You were arrested by order of General Ivanoff and
