The outcast

by Selma Lagerlöf

And each time the accused went over in his mind the events of that night he felt more and more convinced that he had only killed the two old people in self-defence.

At first, he had not expected to be arrested at all. In the first place, the village where the two old people lay asleep, each with a cloven skull, was far off the high road, and he had every hope that nothing would be discovered until he was far away in safety. Then, too, he had so thoroughly persuaded himself of his innocence that he felt Providence must protect him. For the justice of Providence is other than that of courts of law on earth. It was a justice that understood how a poor vagabond might be forced to act in self-defence. With that sort of justice it was possible, so to speak, to talk as man to man.

The only thing this supreme justice could reasonably reproach him with was—he admitted it freely—a little white lie or so that he had allowed himself to tell at the examination, with regard to where he had been on the night of the crime and the days following. But for all his conscientiousness and his love of right and justice, he realized that in his case it was pardonable. For when a man had been arrested in despite of common fairness and humanity, merely because he happened to have been in prison before—and possibly also to some extent because a savings-bank book, the property of the deceased, and been found on his person—why, he was simply forced to deviate a little from the strict and literal truth. He had been obliged to confess that he had stolen the bank book from the pocket of a fellow passenger in the train. He had not endeavoured to assert that it had been honestly come by, but had freely confessed he had stolen it. As to where the other traveller had obtained it—who could say? It was too much to ask that he, the accused, show know the goings and comings of every stranger.

Again and again he went through the same arguments, each time feeling himself more and more innocent of any crime.

He had reached so far, indeed, as to be filled with an intense conviction of having barely, by a miracle of grace, escaped being murdered in his sleep himself—when the door of his cell opened, and the notary, who had conducted the proceedings of that morning, stepped in, followed by two other men. One was the warder, who had been deputed to look after him, and the other a young man, dressed like a workman of the better class.

The prisoner rose at once to his feet, with an air of respectful attention. He was resolved, as he had told the prison chaplain, on all occasions to observe a proper demeanour, and show that he himself was not only a lover of justice, but well disposed toward its servants.

"I have to inform you, Lamprecht," said the young notary, "that your case will be decided to-morrow. And once more I would ask you, while there is yet time, to ease your conscience and obtain a lighter sentence by sincere repentance and confession."

The accused answered only with a determined shake of the head, but for the rest maintained an attitude of tolerant understanding.

"I can understand, of course, that the notary finds it difficult," he said. "I have myself learned to love justice, which is the foundation of all society—the one thing in which all must trust. And I can understand that it seems hard to judge. You do not wish to condemn an innocent man, or, on the other hand, to let the guilty escape."

While he was speaking he noticed that the judge made a gesture with his hand once or twice as if to interrupt, but he took no heed. A man who has spent twenty years in prison has gained a certain amount of experience in the time, and may have various things to say which might be useful to a notary acting, perhaps for the first time, as judge.