As he gripped the iron pipe and stared in horror at the proceedings, he wanted to scream to Murphy that the man was innocent, that the man did not know anything, that no one knew anything, that no man could explain his innocent guilt. He wanted to yell: He’s innocent! I’m innocent! We’re all innocent! The thoughts came to him so hard that he thought he had actually yelled them out; but he had not spoken; his teeth were clenched. The words had screamed inside of him, hot words trying to burst through a tight wall. And again he was overwhelmed with that inescapable emotion that always cut down to the foundations of life here in the underground, that emotion that told him that, though he were innocent, he was guilty; though blameless, he was accused; though living, he must die; though possessing faculties of dignity, he must live a life of shame; though existing in a seemingly reasonable world, he must die a certainly reasonless death.

Watching the man who was being accused, staring at Murphy who marched to and fro, he felt hot tears running down his cheeks. He had seen enough; there was nothing he could do. Mole-like, he wriggled through the hole to the sewer, then plodded on, still feeling that he had to perform some act which he did not understand. He made his way back to the cave and crawled through the holes into the basement of the undertaking establishment. Despite the fact that the mere thought of doing so revolted him, he wanted to go back in again and look, as though to look were a compulsion. Once more he smelt the odor of strange chemicals; once again he groped for the wooden steps with his wet feet and mounted to the top on tiptoe and saw the keyhole. Squinting into the yellow room, he saw not the nude, black body of a man, but the nude, brown body of a woman. He felt that ever since he had gone from here there had been an endless succession of such bodies lying there, being made ready for burial and taken away only to be replaced quickly by others. He had the feeling that men and women were standing in long lines outside of the undertaker’s door, waiting their turn to lie upon the white table. He felt sorry for the woman; he knew that she had died expecting to reap a rich harvest of eternal happiness and there was for her now only this coldness and endless time. He felt that, though she was dead, she was somehow still alive, standing over her waxen body at the white table, looking with wet eyes of sorrow upon herself, wringing her hands in grief at her shameful end. Why? Why? the woman whispered as she wept. Then he was startled to hear the clear, innocent, piping voice of a child wailing: Mama, I want a piece of bread. . . . Please, mama. . . . He whirled from the keyhole and struggled through the opening in the wall and stood again in the cave. Just a little more and he would be through; just a little more and he would be ready to leave the underground. . . .