Once there was a poor man with a son. The man could not look after his son anymore, so the son said to him, ‘Dear father. Things are bad here, and you have to work hard to look after me. Let me leave, and I will look after myself.’
I was sick, sick with the feeling of death. I heard the mutter of those who had questioned me, the Inquisitors. I saw the lips of the black-robed judges, and they were whiter than the paper that I am writing this on. They were thin, and tight, and they whispered things I could not hear. I saw seven candles on a table beside me, and they shone like angels, but I knew there was nobody to help me. I thought how sweet death would be, and then the men around me disappeared, and the candles faded into darkness.