communicate the news to my neighbours. The narrow court-yard, into which
the sunshine streams, is, as usual, empty, excepting for the sentry on
his eternal march. Above the wall I see a row of soldiers and
workwomen's faces, all pale, as they look at the prison and listen to
the noises. As I appear at the window a woman covers her face with her
hands and screams, and I recognise her as the wife of one of our
comrades, a workman. This cry, this gesture, the word "torture" that I
hear run along the crest of the wall--all this at first surprises me.
As, however, I follow the direction of the eyes of those gazing at me, I
discover the cause. My hands, by which I am holding myself to the window
bars, are covered with blood, the result of my recent work of
destruction of glass and woodwork. There is blood, too, on my
light-coloured dress. Poor woman! By voice and gesture I try to calm
her. But does she hear me down there? The sentry looks towards me. He is
young and very pale, and in his eyes, stupefied by what is going on
around him, there is a world of carelessness and passiveness, and as I
look into them a shudder of agony and despair passes through me.

The voice of Nadine calling brings me to her side. Partly unconscious,
she sobs in the commencement of a nervous crisis, and asks for water.
Water! I have none. Not a drop! What is to be done?

[Illustration: "A SOLDIER SEIZES THEM."]

And while I try to calm her with gentle words and caresses, and look
round in the vain hope that some few drops of the precious fluid may
have escaped my notice, the door of the cell is suddenly opened, and
several soldiers, drunk with the uproar and the fight, rush in. A cry of
horror escapes me, and instinctively I retreat behind my bed. The noise
of chains and the voice of the Commandant ordering that all prisoners be
immediately manacled, reassures me. Ah! the chains! Only the chains! I
do not intend to resist. All resistance on my part would be useless.
Besides, I am anxious to be rid of the presence of these soldiers, and
would willingly hold out to them my bleeding hands, if a confused idea
in my brain did not tell me that such an act would be one of cowardice.
And now a soldier seizes them, and drawing them behind my back, fastens
heavy iron manacles to my wrists. Another attempts a similar operation
upon Nadine, who, frightened, struggles and screams. Making an effort to
calm her, I try to approach, but a sudden jerk on the chain