But I could see no prison. No building of any kind stood on the lonely hilltop or on its slopes, which were bare of all but grass. All I could see was a circle of queer-looking objects like large metal mushrooms. Upon close inspection I saw that these things were ventilators for a subterranean building, and walking further, I came to a steep, circular ditch, into which some steps were cut. At the top of the steps stood a sentry with a rifle slung over his arm.
I approached this man, who regarded me suspiciously and unslung his rifle, but the glint of a gold sovereign—we used to have such things before the era of paper money—persuaded him that I was an agreeable fellow. My brutal motor driver, who spoke a bit of French, so that he understood my purpose, explained to the sentry that I was an English tourist who would like to see his excellent prison. After some debate, and a roving eye over the surrounding landscape, the sentry nodded, and made a sign for me to go down the steps, with the motor driver. I noticed that during all the time of my visit he walked behind us, with his rifle handy, lest there should be any trick on our part.
It was the most awful dungeon I have ever seen, apart from ancient dens disused since mediæval times. Completely underground, its dungeons struck me with a chill even in the short time I was there. Its walls oozed with water. No light came direct through the narrow bars of the cells in which poor wretches lay like beasts, but only indirectly from the surrounding ditch, so that they were almost in darkness. In the center of this underground fort was a cavern in complete darkness except, perhaps, for some faint gleam through a grating about two feet square, high up in the outer wall. It was just a hole in the rock, and inside were five men with heavy chains about them. Once a day the jailers pushed some loaves of bread through the grating. What went on in that dark dungeon, and in the darkness of those men’s souls, it is better, perhaps, not to imagine. The cruelty of men is not yet killed, and there are still, in the hearts of men and of nations, lurking devils worse than the wildness and ferocity of beasts....
I went to other prisons in Lisbon and Oporto. They were not like that, but, generally, like the Limoero, unclean, squalid, horrible, but with human companionship, which alleviates all suffering, if there is any kind of comradeship. In these cases one could not charge the Portuguese Republic with inflicting bodily suffering upon their prisoners in any deliberate way. The indictment against them was that, under the fair name of liberty, they had overthrown the monarchical régime and substituted a new tyranny. For, among all the people I met, there were few who had been charged with any offense against the law, or given the right of defense in any trial.
A queer fellow came into my life during this time in Portugal, whose behavior still baffles me by its mystery. The episode is like the beginning of a sensational detective story, without any clue to its solution.
The first night of my arrival in Lisbon I dined alone in the hotel, and soon remarked a handsome, well-dressed, English-looking man who kept glancing in my direction. After dinner he came up to me and said: “Excuse me, but isn’t your name Jones? I think I had the pleasure of meeting you in London, some months ago?”
“A mistake,” I said, civilly; “my name is not Jones.”
He looked disappointed when I showed no signs of desiring further conversation, and went away. But presently, after studying the hotel list (as I have no doubt), he returned, and with a very genial smile, said: “Oh, forgive me! I made a mistake in the name. You are Philip Gibbs, I believe. I met you at the Savage Club.”
I knew he was lying, for I seldom forget a face, and not such a face as his, very powerful and arresting, but as I was bored with my own company, I gave him a little rope. We took coffee together, and talked about the affairs of the world and the countries in which we had wandered. He had been to South America and other countries, and told me some very amusing yarns. I was much taken with this man, who was certainly well-educated and a brilliant talker.
The mystery appeared when he tapped at my door next morning, and said he desired to ask a favor.