A living picture drawn from the very heart of reality, dedicated to those who labor hard to create a better society — in the hope that in their principles of reform there may be some share for these unfortunates.

"How greatly all this has changed!" Raouf said it slowly, standing dazed, his eyes moving here and there. And in what he said he was truthful: yes, how greatly all this had changed. The long, wide street had not been so grand as it now was. These massive buildings, these crowded shops, those cafés spread along the two sides — all this was new to him, for none of it had existed nine years before... Truly, everything had changed.

But why wonder, when the hand of change had reached out to him as well? He had not been at all what he was now. He had been... he had been... oh, how hard it is to remember... no — how bitter the memory was to him. The man thrust his hand into his inner pocket and drew out, from among a bundle of papers, a photograph of himself that showed him a young man, the water of life dripping from his face, and in his eyes a smile courted by wishes and caressed by wide hopes. He could hardly believe that this face had ever been his.

He sighed with anguish and returned the picture to its place in his shabby pocket... and began to pass his hand over his face, feeling it; then he cast a sorrowful

glance at the suit he wore, which had once had its share of elegance. Now it was faded in color, its tightness straining against his frame.

Yes, the hand of change had reached even his body. He had been slender and light; but now, what had that slenderness to do with this coarse body? Where was the fineness in these bulging muscles? Where indeed was that comely, handsome youth in this man who still bore on his face and his head the marks of prison — the face that had not known a razor for days, and the head that had been written upon with the razor whenever its hair grew a few millimeters long?

Oh, a curse upon life — how much he had hoped of it, and how utterly it had disowned him.

The man heaved a sigh, then pushed himself forward and walked. Where to? He did not know. It was good to walk and walk — turning now and then to see whether he was being followed by that rough soldier who, with his terrible rifle, had been bound to him closer than his shadow for nine years; and when he made certain the man was not there, a smile would break from his lips, assuring him that he had truly become free... So he must enjoy this freedom that had been showered upon him that morning, now that he had paid the prison his debt to the last minute...

In his walking Raouf covered most of the streets of the city,

hurrying at times and slowing at others, gathering up everything he met with a look of curiosity — like a small child whose eyes have opened on worlds where everything is new to him.

At last, after seven unbroken hours of walking, weariness took him. He looked about him for a place where he might find rest and recover the vigor of his legs, and he chose a seat near a planted hedge surrounding a fragrant garden, in the middle of which stood an elegant villa.

He rested in the shade for an hour and more, snatching a short doze, after which he rose to continue on his way to any place where something to eat might be found, for he felt hunger gnawing at his bowels. He possessed the price of a few meals with which to silence the call of his stomach for two or three days, and after that... But he liked to think only of the present — the very near present — and afterward he would see how matters stood between him and this world...

He walked a few steps along the curb, his gaze straying beyond the trellised hedge, until he came level with the garden's iron gate, on which was fixed a small brass plate bearing some name.

He read the name out of mere habit. He took one more step, then at once drew back and read the name a second time, a third, a fourth, staring in astonishment. Good God... this name... it meant things to him. It was the turning point of his life... The man's head spun and his eyes were nailed to the shining brass plate, as if he were reviewing on

its surface armies of memories that seemed to look out at him through that plate.