knew me by--Eighty-four. He was Number Seventy-two. Every night for a
month I would stick my ear to the partition and listen and listen for
that strange, strange mention of me. I got so that when we would meet
in the daytime I'd feel like grabbing hold of him and telling him that
I loved him.

"Now, on the first of every month I was in the habit of writing a
letter to the Governor, and the time had come round again. I got the
paper and pen and ink from the warden, and started to go over again my
old lying tale, but somehow I couldn't put the old fire in it. I kept
thinking of Seventy-two and his prayers. I remember I cried that
night, and felt as limp as a rag. I had changed. Then, I don't know
how it happened, but it was as though some voice had spoken inside of
me and told me not to write to the Governor about _myself_, but about
Seventy-two, who really was innocent. So I started out, and with the
tears pouring down my face and blotting the paper I told the Governor
about the prayers of Seventy-two, and how good he was, and begged him
to give him a pardon, as I knew positively that he was innocent. Then
a queer thing took place. I couldn't begin to explain it, but in
trying to think of some way to convince the Governor of the fellow's
innocence I came out with this: I said, 'Governor, I am the man that
has been writing to you all this time swearing he is innocent. I have
written you a thousand lies. I am guilty, but I'm telling you the
truth this time, as God is my judge. I don't ask release for myself,
but I want justice done to Seventy-two. No purer or better man ever
lived.'

"I sent the letter off; and, friends, I'm here to tell you that I
never felt so happy in all my life. The very prison walls that night
seemed to melt away in space. My poor cot was as soft as floating