"Is that enough?" he asked.

"Thank you, thank you!" said Ferleitner; "only now I want a pen."

"Oh no, my dear sir, no. We know that sort of thing. Since the notary
in Number 43 stabbed himself with a steel pen five years ago, I don't
give any more," said the gaoler.

"But I can't write without a pen," returned Konrad.

"That's not my business; I can't let you have a pen," the old man
assured him.

"The judge gave me permission to have one," Konrad remonstrated
modestly.

Then the old man exclaimed afresh: "Do you know this judge, he just
comes up as far as this," and he placed his hand on a level with his
chin. "He crumbles everything up and then we're to spoon it out."
Then he muttered indistinctly in his beard; "I say just this, if they
let a man hang for a week before they hang him, it's a--a--good God! I
can't properly--I can't find any more fine words! If a man puts a
knife into himself, no wonder!"

"I shan't kill myself," said Konrad quietly. "They say I may put my
hopes in the king."

"And you want to write to him? That won't help much, but you can do it
if you like; there's time. For once it's a good thing that our