We were in front of the Stadtvogtei. It is a prison well-known in Germany. In times of peace it lodges persons who are awaiting trial before the Court of Assizes, and to it political prisoners are consigned. It is situated on Dirksen street, about two hundred yards distant from the Alexandre Square, and adjoins the police headquarters. It is of immense construction, divided into triangular sections.

We halted at the front entrance and a few moments later we were admitted into an office where we found two soldiers, one a sergeant-major, and the other a non-commissioned officer. Up to this time I was not aware of the character of the place to which I had been brought. In fact, I was under the impression that it might, after all, be an hotel reserved for prisoners passing through Berlin. I had always in mind the information which had been given to me in Antwerp, namely, that I was to be interned at Ruhleben. I imagined this was a mere halting place where I should be given something to eat and afterwards taken to my ultimate destination.

I looked around, first examined the office and then observed the two soldiers. My first companion, the non-commissioned officer, and the civilian entered into conversation with the two soldiers. The non-commissioned officer took a document from his pocket, transferred it to the sergeant-major, who examined and signed it, and then gave it back to the non-commissioned officer.

The man in mufti, whose rank or profession I never knew, shook hands with me, while the two soldiers in the office stood to attention, their attitude being one of mingled respect and fear which is familiar to all who have visited Germany. The man then left me.

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.

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.