Never in my life have I been so touched; never so near breaking down, as when, on that night, the keepers in the Tombs, where I had lodged so long, expressed to me their sympathy and confidence. I believed in their sincerity then; I have never doubted it since.
Next morning.
I went to my little cell; and, with my best philosophy, undid the chattels I had packed so carefully that morning and addressed to home. I slept. What? Sleep? Certainly. There was no more suspense; I was legally dead. Life had stopped with its forfeiture; relief had come from doubt. I slept. It proved my proposition of the afternoon.
The Second Jury. Nov. 11, 1902.
The jury sitting at my second trial has retired, and three years later I find myself under almost precisely similar circumstances to those just described. I will note the variations. The suspense, the doubt, should be worse than at the previous trial, knowing, as I do, what it is to be a convicted man, and what it would mean to go all through it again. I know it, all the way from the ceremony of passing the death sentence to the opening of the little door.
Strangely enough, that same strain of music hums in my brain, repeating itself over and over again. I do not believe I have thought of it once during the last three years. Yet, here it is, and I shall march to it again.
What will the jury do?
I do not think about my case this time; if acquitted, I shall be pleased for my father’s and mother’s sake. If convicted, as far as I am personally concerned I am absolutely indifferent. I am like a man who, having fallen from the roof of some sky-scraper, lies mangled in the street below. Suppose an old friend comes along and kicks him? He cannot feel it because his back is broken. I can suffer no more whatever happens; and I have forgotten how to rejoice.
Acquitted, convicted—I am indifferent. Since that night I watched the dawn come to the Death-Chamber, as God lives, I have not cared.
