All flowers perish in our prison, madam." Yesterday another lady brought me a very valuable crucifix of ivory, a family heirloom, she said.

Not afflicted with the sin of hypocrisy, I told my generous lady frankly that I do not believe in miracles.
"But at the same time," I said, "I regard with the profoundest respect Him who is justly called the Saviour of the world, and I honour greatly His services to mankind.
"If I should tell you, madam, that the Gospel has long been my favourite book, that there is not a day in my life that I do not open this great Book, drawing from it strength and courage to be able to continue my hard course--you will understand that your liberal gift could not have fallen into better hands.

Henceforth, thanks to you, the sad solitude of my cell will vanish; I am not alone.

I bless you, my daughter." I cannot forego mentioning the strange thoughts brought out by the crucifix as it hung there beside my portrait.

It was twilight; outside the wall the bell was tolling heavily in the invisible church, calling the believers together; in the distance, over the deserted field, overgrown with high grass, an unknown wanderer was plodding along, passing into the unknown distance, like a little black dot.