The next instant the non-commissioned officer invited me to accompany him along a dark corridor, thence up two flights of stairs to a cell which was already occupied by three prisoners. I was at a loss to know what was to become of me. A confusion of ideas crossed my mind, but I could not now define any one in particular. I addressed my new companions in French, but they did not understand me. I next spoke in English and this time I had the pleasure of knowing that I was understood. “Are you English?” I enquired. “Yes,” they said. “But what are you doing here?” “Here,” they answered with a sad smile, “we are in jail!” “In jail!” I repeated. “And I?” “And you,” they said with the same sad smile, “you also are in jail!” The names of the three English citizens I learned soon afterwards. The first was a Mr. Robinson, a jockey, who had lived in Germany for many years. He spoke German perfectly. The second was a Mr. Aaron, a naturalized British subject, a broker by profession, born in Austria, but who lived in Berlin. The third was a Mr. Stuhr, of Antwerp, who spoke German well, but French and English imperfectly. He was, I think, a machinist by trade. I asked my companions if it were possible to obtain something to eat, explaining at the same time that for the past twenty-four hours I had been without a particle of food. “Well,” said Robinson, “bread was distributed this morning at eight o’clock. There will not be any further distribution until to-morrow morning at the same hour.” It was less than encouraging. “But,” I said, “there must be means of getting nourishment. Surely they will not deny my request when they know that I have been without food for so long. There must be a means to get food of some kind, somehow?” That same sad smile and their demeanor told me as convincingly as any words could that my hopes were useless. They knew from their experience that I would get nothing to eat until the next morning. “However,” said one of them, “I have some bread left over from this morning. I will give it to you, and Robinson will make some coffee.” Robinson, a short, good fellow, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, brought from under the table an alcohol lamp and proceeded to the making of coffee. What a contrast to the comfort of the large hotels! At about half-past nine o’clock that day I took my first meal in jail. It consisted of a crust of black bread and a cup of coffee, without milk or sugar. But to one as famished as I was, even this seemed a feast, and I expressed the gratitude I felt to my new companions for their kindness.