Another weary hour, and I was consigned to the care of a police-soldier; who, armed with sabre and stick, conducted me through the crowded city to prison. It was then two o'clock.
The prison, situated in the Spenzler Gasse, is called the “Polizer-Hampt-Direction.” We descended a narrow gut, which had no outlet, except through the prison gates. They were slowly opened at the summons of my conductor. I was beckoned into a long gloomy apartment, lighted from one side only; and having a long counter running down its centre; chains and handcuffs hung upon the walls.
An official was standing behind the counter. He asked me abruptly:
“Whence come you?”
“From England,” I answered.
“Where's that?”
“In Great Britain; close to France.”
The questioner behind the counter cast an inquiring look at my escort.
“Is it?” he asked.
The subordinate answered him, in a pleasant way, that I had spoken the truth. Happily an Englishman, it seems, is a rarity within those prison walls.