Monday was worse than Sunday. Throughout the day I was keyed to a high
pitch of nervous expectancy. I could scarcely keep a limb still. Every
sound made me jump, and I kept my eyes glued to the door, momentarily
expecting to gain some tidings of how my trial had gone. When the gaoler
entered with my meals and stolidly declined to enter into conversation,
I grew more and more morose, until at last I can only compare my
feelings with those of an animal trapped and at bay, waiting and ready
to land some final, fearful blow before meeting its fate.

Early in the evening of the Monday I was pacing my cell, a bundle of
twitching nerves, when the door opened to admit an officer. I almost
sprang towards him. I was to learn the truth at last. But he had not
come from the Court.

"Do you feel hungry?" he asked, not unkindly.

"No." I answered feebly, my heart heavy within me. As a matter of fact I
was so overwrought with anxiety that I failed to feel the pangs of
hunger.

"Well," he went on, "you can have what you like."

Thump went my heart again. The verdict had certainly gone against me.
For what other reason had I been offered what I liked to eat? It sounded
ominous. It recalled our practice in Britain where a condemned man is
given his choice of viands on the morning of his execution. Most
assuredly I was going to be shot on the following morning, and daybreak
was not far distant.