“But surely you can give me some idea when it will be held,” I persisted.

“Ach!” and he fumed somewhat.  Seeing that I was not to be turned away without satisfaction he continued, “Your trial will be on Monday.  Get out!”

My reflections upon gaining my cell may be imagined.  I could not resist dwelling upon the methods of German justice, and I commenced to conjure up visions of the trial from which I was to be absent, and to speculate upon the final result.  What would it be?  I saw the heavy disadvantage under which I was labouring, and as may be supposed my thoughts turned to the blackest side of things.  I had another forty-eight hours of suspense in solitary confinement to bear.

To take my mind off the subject I set to work sketching an ornate design upon the prison wall with a safety pin which I had picked up unobserved.  In the perpetual twilight which prevailed during the day in my cell I drew, or should it be engraved? a huge Union Jack intertwined with the Royal Standard, surmounted by the crown of Great Britain and the Royal Arms.  It occupied considerable time, but I took a quaint delight in it.  It successfully moved my thoughts from my awkward position, although at nights I kept awake for hours on end turning over in my mind my chances of acquittal and condemnation, more particularly the latter.

On Sunday I applied for permission to attend church, but after a long official discussion the request was refused.  The prison had no facilities for administering spiritual pabulum to a British prisoner.  This was a mere excuse, because several of the other prisoners attended church.  How I passed that day it is difficult to record.  I paced my cell in a frenzy until I could pace no longer.  I completed my design on the wall, fumbled with my fingers, and dozed.  But the hours seemed to drag as if they were years.  By now I was so overwrought that I declined to send out for my dinner.

Monday was worse than Sunday.  Throughout the day I was keyed to a high pitch of nervous expectancy.  I could scarcely keep a limb still.  Every sound made me jump, and I kept my eyes glued to the door, momentarily expecting to gain some tidings of how my trial had gone.  When the gaoler entered with my meals and stolidly declined to enter into conversation, I grew more and more morose, until at last I can only compare my feelings with those of an animal trapped and at bay, waiting and ready to land some final, fearful blow before meeting its fate.

Early in the evening of the Monday I was pacing my cell, a bundle of twitching nerves, when the door opened to admit an officer.  I almost sprang towards him.  I was to learn the truth at last.  But he had not come from the Court.

“Do you feel hungry?” he asked, not unkindly.

“No.”  I answered feebly, my heart heavy within me.  As a matter of fact I was so overwrought with anxiety that I failed to feel the pangs of hunger.