The music had by contrast seemed only to increase the general
depression.

Only one free spirit soared above his surroundings. He was a
young Belgian--Ernest de Burgher by name--a kindly light amidst
the encircling gloom. He took everything in life with a smile. I am
sure that if death as a spy had been ordered for him at the door,
he would have met that with the same happy, imperturbable
expression. He had quite as much reason as I, if not more, for
joining our gloom-party. He, too, was waiting sentence. For six
days his wild, untamed spirit had been cabined in these walls; but
he had been born a humorist, and even in bonds he sought to play
the clown. He went through contortions, pitched coins against
himself, and staggered around the room with a soda-water bottle
at his lips, imitating a drunkard. But ours was a tough house even
for his irrepressible spirit to play to. Despite all his efforts, we sat
around like a convention of corpses, and only once did his comic
spirit succeed.

One prisoner sunk down in a comatose condition in his chair, as
though his last drop of strength and life had oozed away. Now de
Burgher was one of those who can resist anything but temptation.
He stole over and tied the man's legs to his chair. Then he got a
German soldier to tap the hapless victim on the shoulder. Roused
from his stupor to see the soldier standing over him like a
messenger of doom, the poor fellow turned ashen pale. He sprang
to his feet, but the chair bound to his legs tripped him up and he
fell sprawling on the floor. He apparently regarded the chair as
some sort of German infernal machine clutching him, and he lay
there wrestling with his inanimate antagonist as though it were a