The Letter

The dying sun was casting a few sparse rays through the bars of the solitary window of the cold cell. The prisoner, an erect and dignified man whose garb revealed him to be a clergyman, gazed thoughtfully at what he knew would be his last sunset. The day is dying, he thought, and before tomorrow is really begun, I must die too. He trembled slightly at the thought but remained calm. Often he had preached sincerely that death was not to be feared and his faith did not fail him now. Yet he seemed...