We came out upon a long stone passage, and I noticed the doors were numbered like the cells below.
He opened the first one and walked in.
The cells were somewhat larger than the others, but not much. Here stood a man in the centre of the floor, his hands pressed against his forehead.
By his side were pen and ink and paper on a table, and a plain, straight-backed wooden chair stood beside it.
After a while he sat down and drew the pen and paper to him.
He began to write, and wrote steadily for some time. Then the speed began to slacken, till at last he stopped. He made one more attempt to continue, but evidently he recognised it as hopeless. He put the pen down and got up. Again he stood in the middle of the floor, holding both temples as if trying to force something back that would not stay.
After some time so spent he again sat down, and again began at the same even, quick rate. But the same result followed and once more he got up. I noticed the same thing with him that I had noticed in the man and woman down below: which was, that his breath came in thick, heavy gasps, as if he were suffering extreme pain.
“It has gone—quite gone,” he groaned.
And he sat down and cried as miserably as any lost child might have done.
Vestasian took up one of the papers and glanced at it. He put it down and smiled.