"Well, brother, there you are, hanged!"
"And when will they bang me?" asked Yanson, in a tone of incredulity. The guard reflected.
"Ah! wait, brother; you must have companions; they do not disturb themselves for a single individual, and especially for a little fellow like you."
"Then, when?" insisted Yanson.
He was not offended that they did not want to take the trouble to hang him all alone; he did not believe in this excuse, and thought they simply wanted to put off the execution, and then pardon him.
"When? When?" resumed the guard. "It is not a question of hanging a dog, which one takes behind a shed and dispatches with a single blow! Is that what you would like, imbecile?"
"Why, no, I would not like it!" said Yanson suddenly with a joyous grimace. "'Twas she that said I must be hanged, but I, I do not want to be hanged!"
And, for the first time in his life perhaps, he began to laugh—a grinning and stupid laugh, but terribly gay. He seemed like a goose beginning to quack. The guard looked at Yanson in astonishment, and then knitted his brows: this stupid gaiety on the part of a man who was to be executed insulted the prison, the gallows itself, and made them ridiculous. And suddenly it seemed to the old guard, who had passed all his life in prison and considered the laws of the gaol as those of nature, that the prison and all of life were a sort of mad-house in which he, the guard, was the chief madman.
