"Listen a moment!" she called after a while. "Ojen wants to read his
latest--a prose poem."

And they settled down to listen.

Ojen brought forth his prose poem from an inside pocket; his hands
trembled.

"I must ask your indulgence," said he.

But at this the two young students, the close-cropped poets, laughed
loudly, and the one with the compass in his fob said admiringly:

"And _you_ ask for _our_ indulgence? What about us, then?"

"Quiet!"

"The title of this is 'Sentenced to Death,'" said Ojen, and began:

For a long time I have wondered: What if my secret guilt were
known?...

Sh....

Yes, sh....

For then I should be sentenced to death.

And I would sit in my prison and know that I should be calm and
indifferent when the supreme moment should arrive.