The death which I had accepted with quiet resolve, which I would not be so weak as to tremble before, was now a source of joy. With each raising of his voice came a raising of mine, calculated to bring on his attempt to not be outdone in this. Soon, no matter how hidden we might have been in this place, the truth would not be, because all could hear what was passing between us. The man was a madman, a lunatic. With my death, the public would see what the police had become. Can any man hope to achieve better with his life than that? A good day's work done, I could lay down to sleep, that final, dreamless sleep without guilt or doubt or regret. Let the bullet come, so that this blessed night might keep the promise it had made.

But how reluctant the beast was to finish me off!He seemed only to want to talk. Had he been more clever than I imagined him to be and seen through my plan? With annoyance, he answered my mockery quickly. "Your saing that you're thankful shows that you do know what I was talking about."

Was he pleading? I could be gracious, as he had fallen into my trap by ... what was it, that he ought not have done? Yes, shout. Most foolish of him, not well planned, at all. "Of course it shows that, my dear sir ...", I said, gently humoring him, "... but what you said was rather peculiar, too". Perhaps the beast might be trained? As much appeal as my purposeful martyrdom had for me, I could see some value in teaching humility to the authorities. If in one of them I might plant the seeds of such wisdom as one might hope to see grow in such stony soil, who knew what might come of such a wonderous accomplishment? Life, on such terms, would seem almost as virtuous as death. Indeed, the circumstances seemed to have struck him with such force as to make him stagger back. Laying his hands upon the step above him, he braced himself, leaning back until the steps must surely have bitten into his back, torturing his body even as they calmed his soul. Nobody could have knocked him loose from the perch he had found, so at least in this sense he had regained his footing.

"Haven't you a comical way of wriggling out of things, projecting your own state of mind onto others, like that", he said.

He was pleading, and ... was it my imagination? I could have sworn that even in this forgotten place, I heard footfalls and laughter, soft, feminine laughter. The crowd must have gathered even sooner than I had hoped. Where women were to be found at this late hour, there surely would be the men who had entered it before them, beckoning them to enter when the found it safe. With them would be the friends who would call on this warm ... relatively warm ... gentle night, with whom they would share this delicious entertainment. Curious crowds would follow them to see what had distracted those couples on a night that would seem so preciously suited for love, in this place where one always felt winter's breath upon one's back, even on the warmest days of our brief summers. The trap had closed. The time had come for me to press my advantage, for the deer to devour the bear.

Clasping my hands together, a priest at prayer in the church of the one truest God - truth - I greeted this supplicant before me, this misguided persecuter who so needed to see the light. "No", I began, correcting the beast's childish notions with a gentleness that I hoped the softness of my voice would help him understand, "I don't do that with anybody, bot even with you at the moment, because I can't. Nobody can."

A moment's silence - only a brief moment so that he would not break in - to let the point sink in, while I reminded myself that I dare not lay my hand on his shoulder to comfort him in his distress. "But I should be glad to do so if I could, for then I wouldn't need to make people look at me in church. Do you know why I need to?"

Having uttered these words, I found the reality of my own absurdity, in that very moment. I was as the caring passerby who, loving the bear who struggles to free his leg from the fur hunter's trap and knowing that he can't give solace to a creature incapable of understanding it, instead decides to discuss the finer points of epistemology with the beast. How could I ever hope to make him understand, as I knew I must, for only understanding could give this man a gentler purpose in life than I had imagined possible, just moments before? I would have to help the beast becomes more than a beast, to find his heart and become a man. Such possibilities that might open if a true human soul were to be in his position, able to make a difference?

But how could I even begin to do this? A greater wisdom than mine than would be needed for this task so, quietly, for the first time in a long time, I began to pray. I did so not for myself, but for this lost soul I would bring back in from the wilderness in which it had so long wandered. Looking in its eyes, I could see the weariness, the longing for warmth and comfort that could only come in the company of other gentle souls, a longing his fears would not let him admit to himself that he had felt for so many years. I would have wept for him openly, if I could not see how he would misunderstand and be further misguided by this. I would have to be strong.

I owed him no less.