"Thy mother is gone from thee," said the voice, "outworn by thine evil ways. Thou didst choose to have thyself and not thy mother, and there thou hast thyself, and she is gone. I only am left to care for thee—not with kisses and sweet words, but with a dungeon. Unawares to thyself thou hast forged thine own chains, and riveted them upon thy limbs. Not Hercules could free thee or himself from such imprisonment."
The man burst out weeping, and cried with sobs:
"What then am I to do, for the burden of them is intolerable?"
"What I will tell thee," said the voice; "for so shall thy chains fall from thee."
"I will do it," said the man.
"Thy prison is foul," said the voice.
"It is," answered the prisoner.
"Cleanse it, then."
"How can I cleanse it when I cannot move?"
"Cannot move! Thy hands were upon thy face a moment gone—and now they are upon the floor! Near one of those hands lies a dead mouse; yonder is an open window. Cast the dead thing out into the furnace of life, that it may speedily make an end thereof."