which kills sleep. Only once in my life have I tasted the agony of
despair. That time was not yet.

When I awoke the clock of a neighboring church was striking three, and the
rays of a brilliant tropical moon were streaming through the barred window
of my room, making it hardly less light than day.

As the echo of the last stroke dies away, I fancy that I hear something
strike against the grating.

I rise up in my hammock, listening intently, and at the same instant a
small shower of pebbles, flung by an unseen hand, falls into the room.

A signal!

Yes, and a signal that demands an answer. In less time than it takes to
tell I slip from my hammock, gather up the pebbles, climb up to the
window, and drop them into the street. Then, looking out, I can just
discern, deep in the shadow of the building opposite, the figure of a man.
He raises his arm; something white flies over my head and falls on the
floor. Dropping hurriedly from the grating, I pick up the message-bearing
missile--a pebble to which is tied a piece of paper. I can see that the
paper contains writing, and climbing a second time up to the grating, I
make out by the light of the moonbeams the words:

"_If you are condemned, ask for a priest._"

My first feeling was one of bitter disappointment. Why should I ask for a
priest? I was not a Roman Catholic; I did not want to confess. If the
author of the missive was Carera--and who else could it be?--why had he