THE JAIL
windows,—the jail. Everything was faded and drab,—the courtyards, the colour of the walls, the dusty windows, the air in the courtyard and the sky above it all. Drab, the most aristocratic of colours, can sometimes be very repulsive.
Dr. Mattuš was the first of us to be called. A quarter of an hour, half an hour, a whole hour,—still he did not return.
"They do it thoroughly" observed Švehla who kept walking to and fro in the room.
Mayor Groš was talking to Prokůpek about food questions in Prague. Dean Burian was reviving memories with Dr. Soukup of an encounter in connection with some school,—the Dean was once Minister for Education in the Central Committee of the Kingdom of Bohemia. In the little courtyard three Russian officers were walking about,—an old man with the badges of a staff officer, the two others being young subalterns. Two men of the defence-corps were guarding them with fixed bayonets. The area of the yard was about two hundred square metres, but it seemed that this trifle was no hindrance to the Russians. They moved along slowly, stopped, gesticulated,—perhaps their conversation had removed them to some distant district of their native land,—perhaps they were criticising the conditions in their jail,—perhaps they were telling each other anecdotes,—who knows?
Dr. Mattuš came in, and Mayor Groš was called. The aged leader of the Old Czechs testified that they "do it very thoroughly" indeed, they want to know everything, they inquire about everything from several quarters.
A door rattled below, a military jailer opened the entry to the large yard, and a crowd of people scrambled out. They looked up at us,—some greeted, obviously our fellow-countrymen. Men old
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