On Friday morning the 5th July, between six and seven, “Hans” entered our room, and fixing a sorrowful eye upon me--as one who should enter the condemned cell to announce that it is approaching eight o’clock--commenced his customary formula, “Well, gentlemen, I’m sorry----” I knew that the hour of my departure had come, and, before he had finished speaking, had mentally begun to pack up. [Illustration: LIEUT. LAZZARI] My chief emotion was exhilaration at the notion of a change of environment after just two hundred days of captivity at Carlsruhe. I bought a suit-case--chiefly composed of cardboard--into which I made as diplomatic a packing of my sketches and papers as might be, in case of trouble in that direction during the search which prefaces our departure as it did our advent. “Naked we came into the world,” but I discovered that I had gradually amassed very considerable possessions. Bundled most of them into a woven straw sack which had held French biscuits, and which had already done me comfortable service as a rug in front of my couch. Handed over the cash-box--I had been appointed cashier of the camp the night before--and gave account of my stewardship to the Brigadier-General who was senior British officer in camp. 3.50 marks expended to repair broken violin strings; 6.20 marks received from an orderly, being the billiard-table takings for two days. Then farewells to be said all round. Teixeira embraces me in true Portuguese fashion, Tuzzi wrings my hand and repeats sadly, “It is necessary,” a phrase which we have both come to use in pressing upon each other little presents of tobacco and edibles. Lazzari gives me to understand that his robust tenor will be mute to-morrow night, Calvi that his heart-strings as well as those of his violin are broken. And so we pass into the “silence” room for search. It turns out in the present instance to be a mere formality--the interpreter puts his hand into my portmanteau and makes a few pressures, as if he were feeling for heart-beats rather than for hidden devices and designs. We partake of soup--the last plate of an uncountable series--and then we form up outside the court. We hear that we are bound for Beeskow, near Berlin. We answer to our names, and take up position in fours; there is a hoarse order, and a clicking of magazines--the guards are loading their rifles. The officer reports all correct, salutes, and then motions us forward with a movement of his hand, and thus, amid cries of encouragement and injunction from our comrades who remain, we get into step, and pass through the gates. My last vision of Carlsruhe _Kriegsgefangenenlager_ shows me the British Brigadiers and the Serbian Colonels returning our salute; Maggiore Tuzzi, with a look of settled melancholy upon his face, and Capitaine Teixeira, standing aloof, with his hand upon his heart, as suggesting that I shall ever have occupancy there. [Illustration: MAGGIORE TUZZI.] * * * * *