"No." I answered feebly, my heart heavy within me. As a matter of fact I was so overwrought with anxiety that I failed to feel the pangs of hunger.
"Well," he went on, "you can have what you like."
Thump went my heart again. The verdict had certainly gone against me. For what other reason had I been offered what I liked to eat? It sounded ominous. It recalled our practice in Britain where a condemned man is given his choice of viands on the morning of his execution. Most assuredly I was going to be shot on the following morning, and daybreak was not far distant.
"I should certainly have something to eat if I were you," suggested the officer.
"Oh, very well," I replied resignedly, "I'll have a roll, butter, and a black coffee."
Directly the officer had gone I rang the emergency bell. M——, the under-gaoler, answered it. With a tremendous effort I pulled myself together.
"So I'm going to be shot in the morning," I ventured, in the hope of drawing some comment.
"Ach! What? Lie down and keep quiet!" was his stolid retort.
"Look here! I want to write to my wife. Can you get me a pencil and a sheet of paper?"
"Impossible!"