I refused my soup when it came and the Frenchman offered me his.
"If I cannot take my own, why yours?" I asked angrily.
"Mine is not soup, it is something better." It was, and I gladly took it. He had wine instead of soup. This was wrong, but a good comrade who has money can do a kindness to a prisoner. But he must be a very good comrade, and he must have more than enough to buy the wine.
They saw that I was disinclined for much speaking, and they went away to the other end of the cell. There they spoke and gesticulated freely. Yet very seldom did a word reach me; their voices were low, their heads close together, but I noted, half abstractedly as it were, the quick action of the shoulders, the eager motion of the hands. After some time they stopped the conversation and sat or lay down on the rough planks that served for beds. No other prisoners came in that night; sergeants and corporals were not thinking of making arrests, and the soldiers were too busy talking about the affair to quarrel. Yet there were many besides Giulia and me who were sorry for what would surely happen: the quick court-martial, and then the volley at the open grave.
CHAPTER XXII
Next morning the preliminary investigation was held by the commandant. He finished with all other work first, and then directed that I should be brought before him. I knew this, because the others were taken away to stand their trial, and I was left behind. When I was in his presence I saluted, and the commandant said with soldierly directness:
"The adjutant is dead; you are charged with killing him; have you anything to say?"