Out of earshot, and certainly out of sight of that skirmish, we were
speeding at a great rate along a level, lonely road flanked by
beet-fields and long lines of graceful elms that shook hands overhead,
when:

"HALT! WOHIN? WO GEHEN SIE?" rang suddenly out of the darkness
as two figures jumped from behind a farmhouse and leveled their
rifles at us. I shall always remember that sharp command as the cold,
gray muzzles followed us like a sportsman covering a bevy of quail.
Our fat Belgian chauffeur, violinist in times of peace, and posing that
day as an American,--one of those men who look as if they would
bleed water if you pricked them with a bayonet,--needed no second
warning. Running the German gauntlet was not precisely his hobby.
Down went the emergency brake and the car jolted to a sudden halt.

A bristle-whiskered German giant under a canvas-covered helmet
stuck his head through the flaps, and for more than ten minutes he
and another sentinel searched our knapsacks and credentials and
inspected the Government mail pouches which we carried. The
sentries were far from satisfied. We said little at first, realizing,
nevertheless, that we had run between the opposing trenches and up
to the German outposts without actually drawing fire. That, at least,
was something of a comfort.

Then, as if the answer was the price of admission, the big one asked
us if we had seen many British soldiers around Antwerp and Ghent.
We had previously decided that the answer to such talk was, "None
of your business." But the fellow's bayonet was infernally bright and
sharp and his countenance like ice. It wasn't only the equinoctial rain
that made us shiver.