I destroyed it, and it is already a whole week since I touched my pencil.

Of course," he resumed thoughtfully, rubbing his brow, "it would be better to break the slate; to punish me they would not give me another one--" "You had better return it to the authorities." "Very well, I may hold out another week, but what then?
I know myself.
Even now that devil is pushing my hand: 'Take the pencil, take the pencil.'" At that moment, as my eyes wandered distractedly over his cell, I suddenly noticed that some of the artist's clothes hanging on the wall were unnaturally stretched, and one end was skilfully fastened by the back of the cot.

Assuming an air that I was tired and that I wanted to walk about in the cell, I staggered as from a quiver of senility in my legs, and pushed the clothes aside.

The entire wall was covered with drawings! The artist had already leaped from his cot, and thus we stood facing each other in silence.

I said in a tone of gentle reproach: "How did you allow yourself to do this, my friend?
You know the rules of the prison, according to which no inscriptions or drawing on the walls are permissible ?" "I know no rules," said K.morosely.
"And then," I continued, sternly this time, "you lied to me, my friend.
You said that you did not take the pencil into your hands for a whole week." "Of course I didn't," said the artist, with a strange smile, and even a challenge.