badly baked bread which we received from the prison kitchen. One day, when he was especially out of humour, it happened that the Prosecutor and the Colonel in command of the gendarmes visited the prison. The news of this visit had an effect upon Nowakowski entirely comparable with that of the red cloak of the toreador on the maddened Andalusian bull in the Plaza de Toros.
"Executioners! Thieves! Robbers!" he muttered, snorting loudly and angrily.
We heard the doors of the cells being opened one after the other and finally our turn came.
"Have you any complaints to make about your treatment?" asked the Prosecutor, from behind whom peered out the red, smiling face of the Colonel. I was silent, but Nowakowski did not choose to follow my lead and let go at them:
"We have one principal complaint—we are illegally detained in prison, in spite of the fact that we are merely peaceful and cultured men."
The officials were surprised and gazed for a moment in silence. Finally the Prosecutor rebutted with:
"We are in no way responsible for this; we cannot change the sentence of the court. What I am concerned with is complaints about everyday occurrences."
"Look what sort of bread they give us!" exclaimed Nowakowski, snatching the loaf of bread and thrusting it under the nose of the Prosecutor. "The proper baking of bread, I suppose, is no concern of yours either?"
The Prosecutor examined the bread, sniffed it, felt it and handed it to the Colonel, who in turn inspected the loaf, sniffed it, felt it and returned it to Nowakowski.
"Yes," he muttered indecisively.
"Yes what?" the old man asked severely.
"Bread," the authorities answered in return.
