re side by side, we would pound on
the wall as a sign. Four knocks would mean "I--am--all--right." I
pounded the wall four times, and listened. There was no response.

Then, for a minute, the horror seized me--Ted was dead--every one was
dead--I was the only one left!

If the authorities in our prisons could once feel the horror of the
dark cell when the overwrought nerves bring in the distorted
messages, and the whole body writhes in the grip of fear,--choking,
unreasoning, panicky fear,--they would abolish it forever.

* * *

After an eternity, it seemed, the key sounded in the lock and the
guard came in, letting in a burst of light which made me blink. He
came over to the window, swung open the iron door, and the cell was
light!

"What time is it?" I asked him in German.

He knew his business--this guard. He answered not a word. What has a
prisoner to do with time--except "do" it. He handed me a broom--like
a stable broom--and motioned me to sweep. It was done all too soon.

He then took me with him along the hall to the lavatory. At the far
end of the hall and coming from the lavatory, another prisoner was
being brought back with a guard behind him. His clothes hung loose on
him, and he walked slowly. The light came from the end of the hall
facing me, and I could not see very well.

When we drew near, a cry broke from him--

"Sim!" he cried. "Good God!... I thought you were in Holland."

It was Bromley!

Then the guard poked him in the back and sent him stumbling past me.
I turned and called to him, but my guard pushed me on.

* * *

I put in as much time washing as I could, hoping that Ted would be
brought out, but I did not see him that day or the next.

At last I had to go back, and as the guard shoved me in again to that
infernal hole of blackness, he gave me a slice of bread. I had filled
my pitcher at the tap.

This was my daily ration the first three days. I was hungry, but I
was not sick, for I had considerable reserve to call upon, but when
the fourth day came I was beginning to feel the weariness which is
not exactly a pain, but is worse than any pain. I did not want to
walk--it tired me, and my limbs ached as if I had _la grippe._ I soon
learned to make my bread last as long as it would, by eating it in
instalments, and it required some will-power to do this.

Thoughts of food came to torture me--when I slept, my dreams were all
of eating. I was