I cannot dance, but there is always a portion of the ball, at least, to the beholder. Captain Sugrue and I had looked into the _Gasthaus_ at the Railway Crossing. It was an animated scene which met our eyes. The saloon was decorated with flags and festoons of red roses, while about eighty couples, composed of German soldiers and their sweethearts--these last with countenances of a colour to match the decorations--danced on almost without cessation. Certainly there were intervals, but these were of the shortest duration. The cavaliers would approach, possibly with a short bow; more frequently the overture was merely a smart tap upon the shoulder, and they were off. A little orchestra of piano, violins and ’cello, was housed on a little stage, upon which at one time there mounted the Master of the Ceremonies to announce the finding of a lady’s girdle. Captain Sugrue and I also made various excursions afoot to townships within a radius of ten or twelve miles from Beeskow. One of these expeditions took us to the little village of Radinkendorf, where, after some research, we found a very modest little _Gasthof_, where an old woman undertook to supply us with coffee. Whilst we waited, and she worked her coffee-mill, she invited us in motherly fashion into an inner room for warmth. Presently the coffee was prepared, and while we sipped it, “Where do you live?” inquired the aged woman. “Zu Beeskow,” I replied. “We are prisoners.” “Ah, das macht nichts,” said the dame kindly. “Das macht nichts. We are all human. Warum ist der Krieg?” distressfully, and touching her forehead with her finger as if in despair of a solution. “Why is the war? Why? Why?” I could not tell her. On another occasion Tim and I footed it to the small town of Friedland, which at one time, apparently, has had a Jewish population. As we sat together in the dusk by the stove in the _Gasthaus_, there entered a German soldier obviously fresh--but as obviously fatigued--from the front. He approached, recognizing our calling, but anticipating kinship, and was rather nonplussed on discovering our nationality. He told us that for the last days his company had been retiring at the rate of thirty kilometres a day, and leaving almost everything behind them. Before returning we paid a visit to the _Rathaus_--in the Middle Ages the Castle of the Herren von Köckeritz. With his walking-stick Tim measured the walls--which are of amazing thickness--to the no small surprise of several members of the clerical staff who appeared at the window. [Illustration: MURILLO’S “IMMACULATE CONCEPTION OF THE VIRGIN.” Painted by a French officer, prisoner of war, on the outer wall of the camp in 1915.] [Illustration: CAPTAIN TIM SUGRUE] XII IN BERLIN DURING THE REVOLUTION