Once while walking here the prisoner saw a little mound of earth rising
between two of the great stones of the floor. At first he thought that
some tiny worm or insect was trying to build a house for itself.
Looking closer he saw that it was only the home of a little plant. The
stray seed had been brought by the wind, and it was now sending its
roots down into the crevice between the stones. "Poor little plant!"
said the prisoner, "what a sad home you have found! Shall I not crush
you? No! Perhaps you have come to comfort me in this terrible place."
Hurrying to his cell, he brought his cup of precious water. "Drink!
little one," he cried, as he poured the water out around it. "Drink!
and lift up your head."

The next day he watched it again and watered it, and the next day, and
the next. How bravely it seemed to struggle to push its head up and
its roots down, to open its leaves and to catch, the dull light. At
last the little plant became a dear friend and companion to the man.
He would bend over it the whole hour each day and talk softly to it.
He called it Picciola,--his Picciola,--his little one, and as the plant
grew and put on new beauty he forgot his wrongs and his heart was
filled with love and gentleness.

Once there was a storm, and great hailstones beat down upon Picciola.
"Ah, my poor little one will be killed!" cried the prisoner. And he
bent over her and sheltered her and the cruel hail fell upon his own
head until the storm was past. Fearing that other storms might come
when he was shut away from her, he built a little house around her with
the wood that was given him to keep him warm, and made a roof over her
with a mat which he wove from the straw of his own bed. This made him
happy; for, though he could be with his Picciola for but one short hour
each day, he felt that she was safe. So the little plant grew and