Some days after leaving New York I suddenly went down with a high temperature, and had to take to my bed. I did not know what was the matter with me, but presumed malaria, and so did the Italian doctor, who gave me a ridiculously large dose of quinine. I did not have to wait long for the result, as I promptly grew worse, and my temperature rose to 103°. These days were indescribable. Our cabin, a veritable hole, was shared by four passengers. Above me lay a Frenchman who only stopped gabbling and cursing when he was sea-sick. The lower berth was occupied by a pale and resigned Swiss (his nationality at once awoke my suspicions). This man was so sea-sick that it was my opinion he would never reach Europe alive. In the upper, left-hand berth a perfectly rabid Englishman smoked his pipe of Player’s Navy Cut unremittingly day and night, in spite of the closed portholes. He was nearly always drunk and unable to cease his abuse and revilings against Germany for one moment. It is easy to imagine how much rest I got! To cap it all, my berth lay close to the engines, and the bugs were the worst item of the programme. And these dreadful pests did not come singly, but in battalions. Oh, what were the noises, the horrible smells and the sea-sickness compared to this plague! In spite of my exhausting weakness I tried to destroy or to drive away the loathsome insects. But I was soon forced to give up in despair. After that I relapsed into complete indifference. I told myself that the voyage would be over in a few days, and as soon as we had reached beautiful Italy, and I had given myself a short rest, I should be back in my beloved Fatherland. I fought off my illness with the utmost energy, and the thought of Germany aided my convalescence, so that when the ship reached Gibraltar on the 8th of February I was able to be up and about. Gibraltar!