because he used to pass his tobacco through to me--said he had quit
using it. Well, what do you think? One night as I lay with my ear
close to the partition I heard him praying. And the strangest part of
it was that he wasn't praying like a guilty man. He was begging the
Lord to be good to the other prisoners, and open their eyes to the
spiritual light, which he declared was even then shining in his cell.

"Well, do you know, I listened to him night after night, and got so I
could sleep better after I'd heard him pray. And in the daytime I
loved to find myself by his side in any work we had to do. I never
shall forget the thing I'm going to tell you. We were carrying brick
to repair a wall where an attempt was made by some fellows to get out.
It was out in the sunlight, and I hadn't seen the sun many times for a
year past. I don't know how it come up, but somehow he happened to
remark that he was innocent of the charge against him. Circumstantial
evidence had landed him where he was. He wasn't the one that did the
killing at all. I remember as I looked at him that I was convinced he
was telling the truth. He was innocent and I was guilty. I had an odd
feeling after that that I had no right to be near him.

"He used to talk to me in the sweetest, gentlest way I ever heard. He
told me that if a convict would only turn to God the most wretched
prison ever built would be full of joy. He said, and I believed him,
that he didn't care much whether he was out or in jail, that God was
there by his side and that he was happy. Lord, Lord, how he did plead
with me! His eyes would fill chock full and his voice would shake as
he begged and begged me to pray to God for help. I remember I _did_
try, but, having lied to the Governor and everybody else, somehow I
couldn't do it right. Then what do you reckon? I heard him in his cell
every night begging God to help Number Eighty-four--that was all he