"So this is it. This is the day. Today the board will fall, the rope will give a sudden tug, and I'll regain my shadow.

"At least I hope I will. They seem certain of it, but it's not for me to be sure. I can merely hope for the best. They should, however, see it. They must make sure of it. For I won't be affected if it doesn't come out the way they want it to -- by then I'd be beyond all feelings -- but they will suffer. Their conscience will hurt. They may then be forced to remember me, to think of me, even to feel some remorse for their action.

"O you who are divine and brilliant, I'm grateful that you chose me for this favour. I accept it with gratitude. I touch my forehead to the ground. Grant me, however, just one more favour. Let these people at last be certain in my death. Don't make them suffer from pangs of guilt on my account.

"Now that there can be no turning back I rejoice in that you are still with me, divine one. My palm covers this grille in the wall, but the rays of your glory track through it and spill over the floor. I wave my hand in their tracks where thousands of grains of dust dance in ecstasy; I disturb the pattern of their dance, but the golden spot on the floor remains unblurred. My hand casts no shadow. I lay my head in the path of these glittering, whirling motes, yet no shadow darkens the floor. You haven't forsaken me, and I'm grateful.

"Of course, not for a moment did I lose my trust in you, not since that day in the market square when people suddenly began to yell and point at me. It was a bright day, that day of the perihelion, and the entire town was gathered in the square. Everyone was bursting with confidence and joy, watching his dark, dark shadow on the cobbled ground. I too looked, but my shadow wasn't there. I turned around: it wasn't behind me either. But before the cold clamps of panic could press down on my heart, you came into it. I felt the passage of the wind over my face as it brought me your greetings. The veins under my skin throbbed with pleasure as I looked up into the sky. My eyes and my heart filled up with your grace. I was looking at you. And you were looking back at me, and right through me. I was no longer a barrier to your glory. Serene and peaceful, I remained fixed to the spot, rejoicing in my heart, until the enraged mob pushed me down. They cursed and spat; they kicked at my head and my back. They dragged me around the square by my feet, my face striking against the cobble stones, but your vision remained with me. It poured into my skull and stayed in front of my eyes, and I was comforted. You had not left me; you had chosen me and stayed with me.

"The crowd was yelling: he's a ghost -- he's a monster -- let's burn him. Just then the militia arrived and brought me to this cell. When I recovered a little, I crawled over to this hole in the wall. Lying on the floor, I gazed into the path of your glory and received comfort. You hadn't abandoned me.

"Then the priests came, and the magistrates. They asked me questions; they tortured my limbs. What answers could I give them? I kept silent, smiling within my heart where I could feel your blissful presence. Soon they gave up their futile labours and, after consulting the stars, fixed a day. That day has now come. The crowd has once again gathered in the square, while your glory shines over the entire land, making its contours so vivid and its shadows so deep. Soon the guards will come and march me into that eager crowd. Engulfed by your brilliance, I shall join the people in chanting your praises. Then a noose will be placed around my neck, a board will fall, the rope will give a sudden tug, and it will be over. Later, they will drag my body out of the pit and hold it up in light for the final moment of reconciliation. O divine and most merciful presence, don't let them suffer at that moment. Give my corpse its shadow, so they may remain happy and at peace with themselves. Amen."
 

The door rattled open and the guards marched in. They put a rope around the man's waist and dragged him out. A priest walked ahead, making the sacred sign. There was a roll of drums when the group reached the square, and the crowd stopped yelling and turned solemn. A number of men and women fell down on their knees as waves of muttered prayers swelled towards the heavens. Standing the man under the rope swinging from the hook, the guards put the noose round his neck. All eyes were now fixed on him -- eyes of faith and eyes of hope, eyes of anger and eyes of fear, and above them all was the great unblinking, mercifully unmerciful eye of the sun.

The hangman pulled the lever with a jerk; the board fell; then a roar arose from the crowd. For at the tug of the rope, the wooden arm of the gibbet broke and fell through the hole with the body. The crowd surged forward, as the guards and the priest scurried down the steps and into the pit.

He was dead -- there could be no doubt of it. Though his neck had been spared, the heavy iron hook had smashed open his skull. For some moments they all stood speechless, staring with uncomprehending eyes at the crumpled figure at their feet. Then the priest broke the silence. Making the sacred sign, he spoke out in a firm and clear voice. A MIRACLE. IT'S A MIRACLE. THE GREAT ARM OF GOD STRUCK HIM DOWN AND SPARED US THE BURDEN OF JUDGMENT. HIS IS THE GLORY. HIS IS THE JUDGMENT. He then turned around and clambered out of the pit. The guards slowly followed him, dragging the blood-spattered body to show it to the waiting crowd.