What is this?

The swine is there of course, with the usual breakfast things in his hands. The prisoner is not staring at them, but at the men behind him. There are several of them: two fellows in the same dirty arrow-patterned uniform as the swine – and between them they are supporting or half carrying a tall pale man. A young man, but not in his first youth. The two guards cannot be said to be supporting him, but dragging him with them by force, without mercy – which his condition might warrant. All they are interested in is getting him inside to be rid of him.

They glance at the prisoner, whom they have perhaps heard of and are a little inquisitive about – as they sniff at the bad air. Then they hurl the pale man on to the bench, and get out as quickly as they can.

The swine gets his duties over fast. Then he goes too. He has not said a word; the forgotten man has not said anything either.

He is still so astonished that he is standing stock-still. The bolts slide to, the footsteps tramp away.

The prisoner has to collect his wits. This chance happening is completely unexpected. His tongue is out of gear. Is he to have this man in here with him?

A sick person is lying on his bench, shut in with him.

He is afraid at first. He caught a glimpse of the other’s face as they stood in the doorway, and now he dare not meet it. He is hampered by a kind of shyness, not having seen any faces other than the swine’s. He does not understand what was in this face that has just entered. In any case he must take courage before he dare meet it again, he is so cringing and cowed, and this face seemed so strange to him.

A brief moment of irresolution before he dares. He is still looking at the outflung feet, tired, worn out feet that merely belong to the rest of him, but are useless. That is how they are lying on the floor.

But he was walking when he came in ? Or was he simply hanging on to the arms of the men who dragged him here ? They are not a pleasant sight, such feet, all purpose gone.

The cowed prisoner summons up his courage and his eyes travel slowly upwards along the body of the tall prostrate man. His clothes are untidy; they look as if they have been torn off and thrown on again anyhow by strange hands that did not care how it was done.

Then he reaches the face.

He gasps. His first thought is: It’s a dead man! Have they brought me a dead man?

Why have they done that?

There must be some reason. They do nothing without reason.

His terrified thoughts chase one another. In the meantime he stares at the deathly pale face as if it is a vision from another world. What is this? That is always his first thought. What is this? He cannot help but wonder, buried as he is in sifting flour from his own hidden chamber, from his own misery. This is different.