It was the afternoon of Wednesday, September the Sixteenth. The battle
had been over for twenty-four hours. The fog had thinned to a light
lemon colour. It was raining.

By now the country was in possession of the main facts. Full details
were not to be expected, though it is to the credit of the newspapers
that, with keen enterprise, they had at once set to work to invent
them, and on the whole had not done badly.

Broadly, the facts were that the Russian army, outmanoeuvered, had been
practically annihilated. Of the vast force which had entered England
with the other invaders there remained but a handful. These, the Grand
Duke Vodkakoff among them, were prisoners in the German lines at
Tottenham.

The victory had not been gained bloodlessly. Not a fifth of the German
army remained. It is estimated that quite two-thirds of each army must
have perished in that last charge of the Germans up the Hampstead
heights, which ended in the storming of Jack Straw's Castle and the
capture of the Russian general.

* * * * *

Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig lay sleeping in his tent at Tottenham. He
was worn out. In addition to the strain of the battle, there had been
the heavy work of seeing the interviewers, signing autograph-books,
sitting to photographers, writing testimonials for patent medicines,
and the thousand and one other tasks, burdensome but unavoidable, of