He was the most intelligent and respectable man here.
The others were all so different — taciturn at times — and for the most part so sinister, crude or remote.
But then and that not more than a week after his coming here — and when, because of his interest in Nicholson, he was beginning to feel slightly sustained at least — the execution of Pasquale Cutrone, of Brooklyn, an Italian, convicted of the slaying of his brother for attempting to seduce his wife.
He had one of the cells nearest the transverse passage, so Clyde learned after arriving, and had in part lost his mind from worrying.
At any rate he was invariably left in his cell when the others — in groups of six — were taken for exercise.
But the horror of his emaciated face, as Clyde passed and occasionally looked in — a face divided into three grim panels by two gutters or prison lines of misery that led from the eyes to the corners of the mouth.
Beginning with his, Clyde’s arrival, as he learned, Pasquale had begun to pray night and day.
For already, before that, he had been notified of the approximate date of his death which was to be within the week.
And after that he was given to crawling up and down his cell on his hands and knees, kissing the floor, licking the feet of a brass Christ on a cross that had been given him.
Also he was repeatedly visited by an Italian brother and sister fresh from Italy and for whose benefit at certain hours, he was removed to the old death house.
But as all now whispered, Pasquale was mentally beyond any help that might lie in brothers or sisters.
All night long and all day long, when they were not present, he did this crawling to and fro and praying, and those who were awake and trying to read to pass the time, were compelled to listen to his mumbled prayers, the click of the beads of a rosary on which he was numbering numberless Our Fathers and Hail Marys.
And though there were voices which occasionally said:
“Oh, for Christ’s sake — if he would only sleep a little”— still on, on.
And the tap of his forehead on the floor — in prayer, until at last the fatal day preceding the one on which he was to die, when Pasquale was taken from his cell here and escorted to another in the old death house beyond and where, before the following morning, as Clyde later learned, last farewells, if any, were to be said.
Also he was to be allowed a few hours in which to prepare his soul for his maker.
But throughout that night what a strange condition was this that settled upon all who were of this fatal room.
Few ate any supper as the departing trays showed.
There was silence — and after that mumbled prayers on the part of some — not so greatly removed by time from Pasquale’s fate, as they knew.
One Italian, sentenced for the murder of a bank watchman, became hysterical, screamed, dashed the chair and table of his cell against the bars of his door, tore the sheets of his bed to shreds and even sought to strangle himself before eventually he was overpowered and removed to a cell in a different part of the building to be observed as to his sanity.
As for the others, throughout this excitement, one could hear them walking and mumbling or calling to the guards to do something.
And as for Clyde, never having experienced or imagined such a scene, he was literally shivering with fear and horror.
All through the last night of this man’s life he lay on his pallet, chasing phantoms.
So this was what death was like here; men cried, prayed, they lost their minds — yet the deadly process was in no way halted, for all their terror.
Instead, at ten o’clock and in order to quiet all those who were left, a cold lunch was brought in and offered — but with none eating save the Chinaman over the way.
And then at four the following morning — the keepers in charge of the deadly work coming silently along the main passage and drawing the heavy green curtains with which the cells were equipped so that none might see the fatal procession which was yet to return along the transverse passage from the old death house to the execution room.
And yet with Clyde and all the others waking and sitting up at the sound.
It was here, the execution!
The hour of death was at hand.
This was the signal.
In their separate cells, many of those who through fear or contrition, or because of innate religious convictions, had been recalled to some form of shielding or comforting faith, were upon their knees praying.
Among the rest were others who merely walked or muttered.
And still others who screamed from time to time in an incontrollable fever of terror.
As for Clyde he was numb and dumb.
Almost thoughtless.
They were going to kill that man in that other room in there.
That chair — that chair that he had so greatly feared this long while was in there — was so close now.
Yet his time as Jephson and his mother had told him was so long and distant as yet — if ever — ever it was to be — if ever — ever —
But now other sounds.
Certain walkings to and fro.
A cell door clanking somewhere.
Then plainly the door leading from the old death house into this room opening — for there was a voice — several voices indistinct as yet.
Then another voice a little clearer as if some one praying.
That tell-tale shuffling of feet as a procession moved across and through that passage.
“Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.”
“Mary, Mother of Grace, Mary, Mother of Mercy, St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.”
“Holy Mary, pray for me; St. Joseph, pray for me.
St. Ambrose, pray for me; all ye saints and angels, pray for me.”
“St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.”