the wall but had the misfortune to meet a patrol. I fought with the soldiers, killed one and badly wounded a second, following which I was condemned to a term of eight years."
"Yes, it is often so," one of the other prisoners sadly observed.
"Yes, but it ought not to be so," exclaimed the Pole heatedly, as he rose and straightened his bulky shoulders. "I never can reconcile myself to this and never shall. How many times have I escaped and how many men have I killed—and for what reason? Just because of a strange coincidence and the injustice and indifference of the judges."
I made the acquaintance of the new inmate of the prison. His name was Thomas Wierzbicki; he was of superhuman strength but of childlike naiveté and gentleness. Through our long talks I discovered a deep despair in this great hulk of a body with its disingenuous soul, a despair that could easily turn itself into madness.
"It is of no moment whether I was condemned for six months or eight years; it matters only that, when the prison door was closed behind me, I was deprived of the respect of other men. My old parents wept when they learned what had happened; but they have not pardoned me, forgetting me instead as though I were no more among the living. Oh sir, the Russian tribunal murdered my soul. Do you understand what this means? A pure and honest soul. Can I forgive them? Never! Never!"
As he said this, he struck the table so loudly that the other prisoners thought he was about to deal with me as he had with them and some even started to come to my aid. But the giant, after this explosion, moved over closer to me and began to weep.
"They wronged him," muttered Boitsoff, and continued
