As I sat at the table, eating my frugal repast, my companions paced around the room. It was really a cell. An iron-barred window about six feet above the floor ran up the rest of the wall to the ceiling. From where I sat, the sky was visible above the walls of the prison yard. In the cell were four beds, made up as bunks. Placed at the table from which I was eating were four small wooden seats, without backs or arms. The walls were whitewashed, and in the centre of the massive iron door was a grating which would permit the guards to observe everything that took place in the chamber. There was a daily inspection, at about ten o’clock in the morning. The sergeant-major appeared and going from floor to floor he ordered the door of every cell opened in turn. He would scrutinize every occupant haughtily and then make his departure. Seated at the table, my back towards the door, I was absorbed with my own thoughts–and my black bread–when Robinson, gliding towards me, lightly pulled my sleeve to invite me to get up. Realizing that something was going on behind me I half turned and I saw the sergeant-major, more Prussian-like than ever, standing in the doorway. After we all had risen, he cried out in a stentorian voice: “Guten morgen!” It sounded to my ears more like an insult than a morning salutation. “What did he say?” I asked Mr. Aaron. “Merely good morning,” he replied and at once added: “But every time this man bids you good morning, it sounds as though he were saying: ‘Go to the devil!’” He was Sergeant-Major Gotte. CHAPTER XVI LIFE IN PRISON That section of the Stadtvogtei wherein I was confined could give shelter to two hundred and fifty prisoners in about one hundred and fifty cells. Some of the cells contained as many as eight prisoners and a large number of them did not measure more than 12, 13, or 15 cubic metres. The scantiness of these cavities forced the occupants to keep the window constantly open if they would have sufficient air to breathe.