I

A NIGHT IN HELL

As Captain Martin and I traverse the long stone passage leading from his
office to the death chamber, I listen intently to catch any sound from the
jail, for I am wondering whether or not I shall have any companions in
misery; but nothing can be heard. Even when the Captain unlocks and opens
the door on the right at the end of the passage and I step into the
dungeon, there is no indication of any other inhabitants. Except for our
own movements the silence is complete, although there is a peculiar
reverberation of the vaulted roof which reechoes every sound we make. I am
aware of a sort of uncanny feeling about the place, as though there were
some sort of living creature--man, ape, or devil--in every cell, with his
face close to the bars, peering through and holding his breath.

The Captain, going to a locker which is at his left, backing against the
iron wall of the first cell, opens it and takes out a shirt, trousers,
coat, cap, and a pair of felt shoes.

"Take off your clothes and put these on," he says briefly.

I take the clothes as he hands them to me and place them upon a bench at
my right, where I also sit and proceed to make the required change. If
these are the clothes which have been carefully washed and cleaned for me,
I should like to examine--at a safe distance--the ordinary ones. They must
be filthy beyond words. And I suppose no one but a prisoner ever wonders
or cares about the condition of the last man who wore them.

I take off my gray uniform, shirt and shoes, and as I stand in my
underclothes the Captain feels me all over from head to toes to find out
whether I have concealed about me a weapon or instrument of any kind. I
presume the idea is to guard against suicide.

After I have been thoroughly searched I clothe myself in the soiled old
shirt and trousers, put on the felt shoes, throw the coat over my shoulder
and take my cap in my hand. I can not, for the life of me, see what use
can be made of a cap in a dark cell. Before I hand over my own trousers to
the Captain I take my handkerchief out of the pocket.

"You can't have that," says the Captain gruffly; and he snatches the
handkerchief out of my hand.

Well, of all the unbelievable stupidity!

Suicide again, I suppose. But has it never occurred to anyone responsible
for this System that a man can strangle himself more easily with his
undershirt or drawers than with his handkerchief?

Ah! I recall it now--the cas