Like a dog running from the dog-catcher's sling, swiftly I run from my conscience. With ears drawn in and limbs outstretched I dash through the gaping city, down to the narrow alleys, to a passage between two high houses. I breathe heavily and think: Oh, what a horrible race! And suddenly something grips at my throat — lost, all is lost! And after that grip I scream once more and lie down at the dog-catcher's feet, and remain at the feet of my conscience. My brain is hammering with fear, sparks are glowing before my eyes: Oh if I could just once more stretch my limbs in a run through the city! — — My brain is burning with fear, sparks are glowing in my canine eyes — I see now, what I so often heard: the dog catcher is holding an iron mallet in his hand, for us, the dogs, the sword of the executioner; and the skull above my brain is of soft bone — it will break so easily, and brain will squirt through my eyes. I lie prostrate and in anguish lick the boots of my burning conscience.