"It's not an intoxicating beer," the Captain explained. "It's what we call in Germany--Health Beer. It is used in cases of illness when a doctor wants to give a patient strength." It was after we had inspected a little room which one of the French soldiers had converted into a barber shop, where one might be shaved for 10 centimes, and where if one had 50 centimes he might be tempted by a sign that read, "Latest Parisian Haircut here"; it was after we had talked with the sparkling-eyed barber, happy these days--was not money plentiful among the prisoners?--that we came upon the sculptor. Opening a wooden door upon which was written in French that only officers might enter, the Captain bowed us into the last place that you would expect to find in a prison camp. Had the damp odor of clay not told you, you would have seen from the unfinished gray pedestal that stood by the window, that this little twelve by twelve room was a studio. There, standing beside his work, a make-shift sculptor's apron over his soiled red and blue uniform, stood a young French soldier. The Baron explained to me that in 1908 this man had won the second prize at Rome. He told me that his name was Robert L'Aryesse, and in my notebook he wrote his autograph so that I might not misspell his name. I asked him if he knew Paul Manship, the young American sculptor, who only a few years ago took the prize at Rome. At Manship's name the Frenchman's face lit up and he began eagerly to talk of the quarter where they had all lived in Italy. How was Manship? What was he doing? Oh, he had been very wonderful, that young American! The admiration of Monsieur L'Aryesse was great. The Frenchman was so happy to hear news from an old comrade that he forgot that my command of his language was elementary and launched forth in a glowing appreciation of Manship which left me far behind. A photographer meanwhile caught sight of the statue of a Turk standing on the shoulders of a Russian soldier with arm extended (the Baron explained it was to be used as a guidepost to the Zossen prison), and with a keen sense for a good human interest picture began to focus his camera. M. L'Aryesse was in alarm; it would never do to take a picture. What if his friends should see it! He began wringing his hand and then nervously running his fingers through his hair. To think of such a specimen of his work being photographed and published in America. But the photographer assured him that the statue was wonderful, and in an incredibly short time a flashlight powder boomed in the room and the job was done. From the studio we walked up to the end of the street and entered a shed where a swarm of roughly-clad prisoners divided into groups were standing around a post pulling at something. They were braiding straw. One of them exhibited a round mat made of braided straw about five inches in diameter, which, it appeared, were mats to put in the hoofs of the horses to keep out the snow.