near, an odor of wet, unwashed animals arose. It was as rank and raw as
fumes from crude ammonia. Then, in the town house of the Prince de
Caraman-Chimay just alongside, the double doors opened, and the light
streaming out fell upon the naked bayonets over the shoulders of the
sentries and made them look like slanting lines of rain.

There were eight of us by now in the party of guests, our original group
of five having been swollen by the addition of three others--the
Frenchman Gerbeaux, the American artist Stevens and the Belgian court-
photographer Hennebert, who had been under arrest for five days. We
eight, obeying instructions--no, requests--found places for ourselves in
the double files of guards, four going one side of the column and four
the other. I slipped into a gap on the left flank, alongside four of
the English soldiers. The guard immediately behind me was a man I knew.
He had been on duty the afternoon previous in the place where we were
being kept, and he had been obliging enough to let me exercise my few
words of German upon him. He grinned now in recognition and humorously
patted the stock of his rifle--this last, I take it, being his effort to
convey to my understanding that he was under orders to shoot me in the
event of my seeking to play truant during the next hour or so. He
didn't know me--wild horses could not have dragged us apart.

A considerable wait ensued. Officers, coming back from the day's battle
lines in automobiles, jumped out of their cars and pressed up,
bedraggled and wet through from the rain which had been falling, to have
a look at the prisoners. Common soldiers appeared also. Of these
latter many, I judged, had newly arrived at the front and had never seen
any captured enemies before. They were particularly interested in the
Englishmen, who as nearly as I could tell endured the scrutinizing
pretty well, whereas the Frenchmen grew uneasy and self-conscious under