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bird, that path disappearing under a canopy of ivy—
    “That will do now,” said the director good-naturedly, tossing the broom in a corner and putting on again his frock coat. “Come along home.”
    “Yes, it’s time,” responded the lawyer, looking at his watch.
    And the same little procession started back. In front was director Rodrig Ivanovich, behind him lawyer Roman Vissarionovich, and behind him prisoner Cincinnatus, who after so much fresh air was beset by spasms of yawning. The back of the director’s frock coat was soiled with chalk.

Four
     

    She came in, taking advantage of Rodion’s morning visit, slipping beneath his hands, which were carrying the tray.
    “Tut, tut, tut,” said he, exorcising a storm of chocolate. With his soft foot he closed the door behind him, and muttered into his mustache, “What a naughty child …”
    Meanwhile Emmie had hidden from him, squatting behind the table.
    “Reading a book, eh?” observed Rodion, beaming with kindness. “That’s a worthwhile pastime.”
    Without raising his eyes from the page Cincinnatus emitted an iambic assent, but his eyes no longer grasped the text.
    Rodion finished his uncomplicated duties, chased with a rag the dust dancing in a ray of sunlight, fed the spider, and left.
    Emmie was still squatting, but a little less restrained, swaying a little as if on springs, her downy arms crossed, her pink mouth slightly open and her long, pale, almost white lashes nictating as she looked across the table-top at the door. An already familiar gesture: rapidly, with a haphazard selection of fingers, she brushed the flaxen hair from her temple, casting a sidelong glance at Cincinnatus, who had laid aside his book and was waiting to see what would come next.
    “He is gone,” said Cincinnatus.
    She left her squatting position, but was still stooping and looking at the door. She was embarrassed and did not know what to undertake. Suddenly she showed her teeth and, with a flash of ballerina calves, flew to the door—which of course proved to be locked. Her moire sash quickened the air in the cell.
    Cincinnatus asked her the usual two questions. Mincingly she gave her name and answered that she was twelve.
    “And are you sorry for me?” asked Cincinnatus.
    To this she made no answer. She raised up to her face the clay pitcher, which was standing in a corner. It was empty, hollow-sounding. She hoo-hooted into its depths a few times, and an instant later darted away; now she was leaning against the wall, supporting herself only with her shoulder blades and elbows, sliding forward on her tensed feet in their flat shoes, and straightening up again. She smiled to herself, and then, as she continued slithering, glanced at Cincinnatus with a slight scowl, as one looks atthe low sun. All indications were that this was a wild, restless child.
    “Aren’t you just a little bit sorry for me?” said Cincinnatus. “It isn’t possible. I cannot imagine it. Come on over here, you foolish little doe, and tell me on what day I shall die.”
    Emmie, however, made no reply, but slid down to the floor. There she quietly seated herself, pressing her chin against her bent knees, over which she stretched the hem of her skirt.
    “Tell me, Emmie, please … Surely you know all about it—I can tell that you know … Your father has talked at the table, your mother has talked in the kitchen … Everybody is talking. Yesterday there was a neat little window cut out of the newspaper—that means people are discussing it, and I am the only one …”
    As if caught in a whirlwind she jumped up from the floor, and, flying again to the door, began pounding on it, not with her palms, but, rather, with the heels of her hands. Her loose, silky-blond hair ended in hanging curls.
    “If only you were grown up,” mused Cincinnatus, “if your soul had a slight touch of my patina, you would, as in poetic antiquity, feed a potion to the turnkey, on a night that is murky.