“In with you!”
There was the noise of the man being pushed into the dungeon, followed by the violent slamming of the door. The entreating voice continued to cry with wearing monotony:
“I’m not the man.... I’m not the man.... I’m not the man.”
“Good Lord, here’s a bore for you!” said Manuel to himself. “If he runs on like that all night long, I’m in for a fine time!”
Little by little his neighbour’s lamentations abated, finally subsiding into a silent weeping. From the corridor came the rhythmic footfalls of some one who was pacing up and down.
Manuel rummaged desperately through his mind for some idea, if only to amuse himself with it; he could find nothing. The one conclusion he could reach was that it had grown light.
Such a lack of ideas led him, as if by the hand, into a deep slumber, which in all likelihood did not last more than a couple of hours, yet to him seemed a year. He awoke all mauled up, with a cramp in his side; throughout his sleep he had not been able to shake off the realization that he was in a cell, but his brief period of rest had been so restorative that he felt strong, ready for whatever should arise.
He still had in his pocket the wages he had received at the printing-shop. Softly he knocked at the cell door.
“What do you want?” came the query from outside.
“I’d like to step out for a moment.”