One can conceive my disappointment. I remarked to that officer that being a physician I was being detained contrary to international laws; that, moreover, I had on several previous occasions received assurances from the military authorities in Antwerp that I should not be molested; that I had practised my profession, not only in a hospital, before the fall of Antwerp, but since that date among the civil population of Capellen. The officer did not attempt to deny all this, but he said: “You practised medicine for charity; you did not practise it regularly.” Was it conceivable that a man of his position and intelligence could make such a remark? I was astounded, and dared to reply: “I always understood the liberty of physicians in time of war was guaranteed by international conferences, because physicians are in a position to relieve the physical sufferings of humanity, and not because they may be allowed to make money.” The officer saw he had made a bad break, as the popular expression has it. He attempted to effect a retreat in the best order he could. He was really embarrassed, and left me, while I returned to my cell, my heart bowed down by deception and disappointment. A full year elapsed before any substantial change was made in my life of captivity. CHAPTER XXIV A COLLOQUY I had been in prison then for two years, seeing nothing outside but the sky and a wall pierced by some fifty iron-barred windows. For two short hours, one year before, as stated in the previous chapter, I had been granted the privilege to walk on the streets, to breathe the free atmosphere of the city. My general health was bad. I could neither read nor sleep. Mentally I was seriously depressed. I had abandoned all hope of regaining my liberty before the end of hostilities. But one day the old jail physician, a very kind man, Dr. Becker, visited me in my cell. We had previously talked together on medical matters. He knew, of course, that I was habitually called to attend the sick during the twenty-three hours he was absent every day from the prison. He had placed at my disposal his little dispensary. Indeed, from the medical point of view, one can truthfully say that between the prison doctor and myself diplomatic relations were never severed. The object of his visit to me now was to inquire about my health. He had noticed that my general appearance left much to be desired. “Well, how are you?” he asked on entering my cell. “Bad,” I replied. “I am truly sorry,” the doctor remarked. “I have observed lately that you appeared to be far from well.” “The fact is,” I told him, “I cannot sleep nor eat. I am very nervous, and I feel weak and depressed.” The old German practitioner eyed me critically through his spectacles, and it seemed to me that through his glasses I could see reflected a feeling of genuine sympathy. “But,” he urged, “you are a physician. You know, perhaps, just what it is that is particularly ailing you.”