A few days later the prisoner again asked to confess. "Well, have you written another laud?" asked the chaplain.
"No," said the other, looking down, "but I want to ask a favour."
"What is it? Let us hear."
Costantino held his breath a moment, frightened at his own temerity; then he said quickly: "Well, this is it: I want to send the laud home!"
"Ah!" said the chaplain, "I can't do that; how could you write it, anyhow?"
"Oh, I know how to write!" exclaimed the prisoner, raising his clear eyes to the other's face.
"Yes; but the trouble is, my brother, that you are not allowed to write."
"Oh, I can manage that!"
"Well, well, but I can't; I can't do it."