The prison was a huge enclosure surrounded by a high wooden stockade.  Inside this was another stockade, and between the two armed guards paced day and night.  In the inner ring were a number of long wooden houses in which we lived, if that could be called living which for most was but a weary dragging on of existence bare of hope and love, and sorely trying at times to one’s faith in one’s fellows and almost in God Himself.  For the misery and suffering enclosed within that sharp-toothed circle of unbarked posts were enough to crush a man’s spirit and sicken his heart.

In the summer pestilential fevers and agues crept out of the marshes and wasted us.  In the winter the east winds wrung our bones and our hearts.  And summer and winter alike, the Government contractors, or those employed by them, waxed fat on their contracts, which, if honestly carried out, would have kept us in reasonable content.

How some among my fellow-prisoners managed to keep up their hearts, and to maintain even fairly cheerful faces, was a source of constant amazement to me.  They had, I think, a genius for turning to account the little things of life and making the most of them, outwardly at all events.  But the cheerfulness of those who refused to break down, even though it might be but skin-deep and subject to sudden blight, was still better than the utter misery and despair which prevailed elsewhere.

Outwardly, then, when the sun shone and one’s bones were warm, our company might seem almost gay at times, joking, laughing, singing, gambling.  But these things covered many a sick heart, and there were times when the heart-sickness prevailed over all else, and we lay in corners apart, and loathed our fellows and wished we were dead.

I say we, but, in truth, in these, and all other matters, except the regular routine of living, I was for a considerable time kept apart from my fellows by the deafness brought on by the explosion.  I lived in a little soundless world of my own with those dearest to me,—­Carette, and my mother, and my grandfather, and Krok, and Jeanne Falla, and George Hamon.  And if I needed further company, I could people the grim stockade with old friends out of those four most wonderful books of my grandfather’s.  And very grateful was I now for the insistence which had made me read them times without number, and for the scarcity which had limited me to them till I knew parts of them almost by heart.

Outwardly, indeed, I might seem loneliest of the company, for cards and dice had never greatly attracted me, and to risk upon a turn of the one or a throw of the other the absolute necessaries of life, which were the only things of value we possessed as a rule, seemed to me most incredible folly.  Possibly the personal value of the stakes added zest to the game, for they wrangled bitterly at times, and more than once fought to the death over the proper ownership of articles which would have been dearly bought for an English shilling.  But the loss of even these trifling things, since they meant starvation, inside or out, made all the difference in the world to the losers, and cut them to the quick, and led to hot disputations.