I admit that at the moment my sympathies were somewhat with my fellow countryman; but even then I could not help feeling how utterly futile was his objection, on whatever ground it was based. Throughout our entire period of arrest, we--the two friends with whom I had left Paris and myself--had followed but one rule. Inasmuch as we had suddenly found ourselves in a situation where the chief argument was a rifle and cartridge, we always did exactly as we were ordered. To rebel against soldiers and officers who were only following the orders of their superiors seemed mere folly. The fate of the ex-militia man who declined to enter the automobile proved this point. The Captain apparently had never heard of his wealthy relative, for he silently signaled to a soldier standing on the steps. The soldier placed the point of his bayonet gently against the stomach of the prisoner, who forthwith backed up the steps of the car and fell across the knees of his companions, who had been cursing him audibly for "playing the fool." The Captain seated himself beside his chauffeur and both cars started out into the night. We traversed many streets, but I kept peering out of my window and knew our general direction. In a few minutes we drew up in a side street leading from the Boulevard Raspail, before a grimy old building. A soldier with a rifle at salute stood beside its heavy doors. I knew that building. I had passed it every day during many months, for it was just a few blocks from my house and on the direct route to my office. I had glanced at it curiously as I passed. I had read its history. I wondered if it were as bad on the inside as some of the history depicted. The doors opened, and I confess I shuddered as we slipped softly into the thick blackness of the courtyard. There was not a sound for a moment, after the chauffeurs cut off the engines. Then a door to the right opened, throwing out a shaft of light. The Captain descended from the car ahead. At the same moment the doors closed with a depressing crash of iron. In that moment my sensations were of an entirely original character. We all got out of the cars, the prisoners ahead joining us, and stood together in an angry group. "Where are we?" asked some one. "Don't you know?" the ex-militia man snarled. "They've landed us at Saint Lazare!" "Saint Lazare!" cried several in unison. One of my friends snorted. "Don't be silly. St. Lazare is the prison for women, not war correspondents." I roused from my gloomy meditations to break into the conversation. "I'll tell you where we are if you really care to know," I said. "We're in the Cherche Midi--the foremost military prison of France. This is the place where Dreyfus awaited his trial. This is the place of the historic rats, etc."