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Although I was greatly dismayed by such illusions, my spirit did not break; I was reassured and emboldened by the firm belief that the scheme which I had concocted in this clever head of mine could never be exposed. And the constant strain on my mind, making it necessary for me to be perpetually on the alert and never to relax even for a fleeting moment, gave me no time to be afraid. But, now that I am a prisoner, my mind is too weak to resist, and his ghost, taking advantage of my monotonous life in prison, has gained complete possession of my senses. Thus ever since being condemned to the gallows, I have been living in a perpetual nightmare.

Although there is no mirror in this jail, he appears in the reflection of my face in the water when I wash or take a bath. Even the surfaces of tableware, glistening hardware, and, in fact, anything that reflects light, gives back to me the sight of his image, now large, now small. Even my shadow cast by the sunlight from that window there scares me. And, worst of all, I dread seeing my own body, for it, too, is an exact replica of that of my dead brother, down to the faintest wrinkle.

I would rather die than continue to be kept in this agony—a hell on earth. Instead of fearing my execution, I look forward to it, and the sooner it takes place the better. But at the same time I feel that I simply cannot die without first telling the truth. I must get his forgiveness before I die, but if not that, I would at least like to drive away the feeling of being haunted. I know of only one way to achieve this. It is to confess my crime.

Father, please listen closely to my confession, and later please tell the court as well as my wife. I know it is much to ask of you, but I have only a little longer to live, and it is my sole request. And now I'll tell you about my other crime.

First let me repeat that I was born as one of a pair of twins so strangely identical, so completely the same that it seemed as if we had been cast in the same mold. There was, however, a single distinguishing feature. This was a mole on my thigh, the one sign that made it possible for our parents to tell us apart. If our hairs had been counted, I would not have been surprised had the number been the same. This very singular similarity between us was, I now believe, the seed which gradually took root in my mind, tempting me to kill my other half.

When I finally decided to kill my brother I really had no special reason to be bitter towards him other than that of a burning jealousy on my part. The fact of the matter was that he inherited an immense fortune as first-born son and heir, while my share was incomparably smaller. At the same time, the woman whom I had loved became his wife; her parents had forced her to marry him because of his superiority over me in fortune and position. Naturally, this was our parents' fault rather than his. If I wanted to hate, I should have become bitter against my deceased parents rather than against my brother. Besides, he was innocent of the knowledge that his wife had once been my heart's desire. But hate him I did—with all my soul.

So, if I had been capable of thinking rationally, nothing would have happened. But, unfortunately, I was born wicked, and I didn't know how to get on in the world. And to make matters worse, I had no definite aim in life, being a confirmed wastrel. I had become the kind of rogue who is satisfied only with living a life of idleness, living from day to day without a thought for tomorrow. Therefore, after losing both my fortune and my love at one stroke, I suppose I became desperate. At any rate, I immediately squandered foolishly the money I received as my share.

Consequently, there was nothing for me to do but to appeal to him for financial help. And I used to give him a great deal of trouble. He gradually became annoyed at my repeated calls for help, and one day he told me flatly that he would put a halt to his generosity unless I mended my ways.

One afternoon, on my way home from his house