They were back in less than an hour, I’d laid down my pen and was waiting quietly like I last wrote, and they said, “We’ve checked that formula with our scientists. It was an impossible formula. You’ve tried to trick us.” “You’re bluffing.” “We must remind you that insolence may be dearly paid for—Tell us the true formula or the priest’s whereabouts.” “I don’t know either.” “You have three hours. At the end of that time if you have told us what we want to know you will be hanged. If not, you will receive the traditional torture of a spy—” “But I don’t know any other formula! I thought that was the right one! He wanted to kill me because I knew it—I don’t understand!” “In any case, you’re a spy. Tell us where the priest is—we shall come at the end of the three hours. If you do not tell us then you will immediately be flayed … slowly … upwards from the feet … you’ll be able to watch, right till the last, the slow curling back of the peeling skin, the veins all laid bare, the curling … curling …” “You must be a frustrated poet.”

They have left me alone.

Help me, God. God. God. God. God. God. God.

(There follow four pages of God, scrawled each time very large with great intensity and with slow, slow, elaborate curlicues added afterwards. J.G.)

When the door was next unlocked I was behind the wimpled-glass screen separating the fountain from the rest of the room. I had one tiny chance. And at least I had nothing to lose. No matter how I infuriated them, they couldn’t take worse action than was already to be inflicted on me. I had filled my priceless big coral vase with water and threw it all over the black-robe who entered. I made a dash for the door but the black-robe caught me. “You’re in a hurry,” he said, and proceeded to brush the water oil himself.

“May I borrow this?” He scrubbed his head briefly with my embroidered towel.

I had nothing to say after “Kaselm—” I was wondering whether it would be worse or better to be tortured by someone I knew well, at least whose face I knew well though I’d never be able to fathom his thoughts or feelings, I decided it didn’t make any difference.

“I had no idea you’d get yourself into this,” he said in a low but untroubled voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? It’s lucky I found out in time. Put on your cloak.”

“You mean—You’re going to—”