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.