"My boy, it will do you no harm to read it. It may do you good. Read it, m' boy."
For a moment I hesitate. A desperate idea crosses my mind.
"All right, Chaplain, I'll read the Bible, but I don't care for the modern English version. Perhaps you have one with Greek or Latin annotations?"
"Why, why, m' boy, do you understand Latin or Greek?"
"Yes, I have studied the classics."
The Chaplain seems impressed. He steps close to the door, leaning against it in the attitude of a man prepared for a long conversation. We talk about the classics, the sources of my knowledge, Russian schools, social conditions. An interesting and intelligent man, this prison Chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to Russia had impressed him with the great possibilities of that country. Finally he motions to a guard:
"Let A 7 come with me."
With a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks the door. "Shall I come along, Chaplain?" he asks.
"No, no. It is all right. Come, m' boy."
Past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway to the upper rotunda, on the left side of which is the Chaplain's office. Excited and alert, I absorb every detail of the surroundings. I strive to appear indifferent, while furtively following every movement of the Chaplain, as he selects the rotunda key from the large bunch in his hand, and opens the door. Passionate longing for liberty is consuming me. A plan of escape is maturing in my mind. The Chaplain carries all the keys—he lives in the Warden's house, connected with the prison—he is so fragile—I could easily overpower him—there is no one in the rotunda—I'd stifle his cries—take the keys—