"But, holy father," asked the prisoner wistfully, "that is—if you think there will be time?"
"Above all, we must try and find a suitable title. Have you not thought that your child must have a name?"
"I wrote the letters I.N.R.I. at the top."
"It is rather out of the common. People won't know what to make of it. We must at least have a sub-title."
"The title's a matter of absolute indifference to me," said Conrad: "perhaps you can find one."
"I will think it over. May I take the manuscript away again? I must try and become literary in my old age. If a carpenter lad can write a whole book, surely a Franciscan monk can find a title! Have you anything on your mind, my son? No? Then God be with you. I will come again soon." At the door he turned: "Tell me, my son, does the jailer give you food enough?"
"Yes, more than I need."
Outside it was hot summer-time. Conrad knew nothing of it, he had not thought of it. The jailer came with the permission that, as an exception, he would be allowed to walk for half an hour in the garden. Conrad felt quite indifferent. As the warder led him along the vaulted passage, he staggered slightly; he had almost forgotten how to walk. He steadied himself on his companion's arm and said:
"I feel so strange."