something on them, and the officer, without any ceremony, tore the leaves out. I perceived, however, once in a book which was brought back from him, words written with blood, as he was not allowed to have either pen or ink. I could not well make out what he wished to say; but it was something like the words: “I am Karpen,” and then, “it is for you that I am here Pol...” I sincerely pitied the condition of this unfortunate young man. When he made too much noise and disobeyed, they were often so cruel as to flog him. They gave him one shilling per day for his food, he had some milk in the morning, and soup with a piece of meat for dinner and supper; the half of this little was stolen by the officer.
When I was released, I related to those Poles who had some influence, the melancholy fate of this young man, and begged them to use their interest in his behalf; but as I left the town soon after, I was not able to ascertain what became of him. They put Mons. Kapostas into the cell which was left by my friend Mostowski, who
