Poorly fed, the prisoners stalk around like spectres. They receive scanty rice rations for the amount of work they do, and are compelled to beg from everybody. Their murderously-minded Corsican keepers look like fiends in human form, provoke to kill, and like the followers of Marquis de Sade, take a mad pleasure in torture, gloating over the suffering of the wretches they starve and flog. As companions I prefer the thief and assassin convict to the jailer with his white cork helmet jammed down over a low forehead, his shaggy black brows and lashes from which flash heartless glances, his long, bandit-like mustachios, framing a savage slit for a mouth, and his brutal jaw. Far from the restraint of civilization he becomes a beast in fury, and loves to torment his charge. Hearts as well as stones are broken in these prisons. The convict’s complaint is useless, for his letters are censored, doctored and amputated before they reach home. There was one American down here for stealing. He told a friend of mine he could be trusted up to $500, but any amount over that he would steal. Escaped prisoners taken back to Cayenne are often chained to the deck, lashed and kicked by ruthless black guards, and left to wallow in their excrement. The mouths of the rivers are well guarded, and all told there are about 700 police who set the springs to this death-trap. Camps are insanitary and full of disease, insects and vermin. After work the exiles are thrust into dark cells of decaying barracks. Still they have some privileges besides death and torture. They are furnished a piece of ground with necessary tools to work it; allowed to send home for their families, or to have a contract marriage if they have been here two years and shown good behaviour.