Early the next morning a knock sounded on the door of Bertram's cell.
The doomed man crossed the room and shot back the bolt. An officer armed
with a howitzer entered.
"I am instructed to inform you," he said, "that as you are shortly to be
shot you are entitled, according to custom, to choose whatever you wish
for breakfast."
"Thank you," replied Bertram, "a cup of weak tea and a rusk.
Unfortunately I am a chronic dyspeptic, or I would take fuller advantage
of your kind hospitality."
A devilish gleam shot from the other's eyes as he heard those words.
"As you will be dead in an hour," he said, "the fact of your being a
dyspeptic need not trouble you any more than if you were an acrostic.
Let me therefore suggest that you try a sausage or a knuckle of pork."
Bertram reeled against the piano. Here was an opportunity to gratify his
palate without regard to the consequences. Quickly he made up his mind.
"Bring me then," he said, "a plate of sausage and sauerkraut, a slab of
marzipan and some Limburger cheese."