narrow and uncomfortable under lock, and he was tired of the annoying,
searching eye staring at him through the peephole in the door. And,
strange to say, almost instantly he forgot all that he had seen a
little while before so clearly and distinctly; and, what is still
stranger, he did not even make an effort to recall it. He simply sat
down as comfortably as possible, without the usual stiffness of his
body, and surveyed the walls and the bars with a faint and gentle,
strange, un-Werner-like smile. Still another new thing happened to
Werner, -something that had never happened to him before: he suddenly
started to weep.

"My dear comrades!" he whispered, crying bitterly. "My dear comrades!"

By what mysterious ways did he change from the feeling of proud and
boundless freedom to this tender and passionate compassion? He did not
know, nor did he think of it. Did he pity his dear comrades, or did
his tears conceal something else, a still loftier and more passionate
feeling?-His suddenly revived and rejuvenated heart did not know this
either. He wept and whispered:

"My dear comrades! My dear, dear comrades!"

In this man, who was bitterly weeping and smiling through tears, no
one could have recognized the cold and haughty, weary, yet daring
Werner-neither the judges, nor the comrades, nor even he himself.



CHAPTER XI
ON THE WAY TO THE SCAFFOLD