Four o’clock. We pass through the gate of the old Bischofsschloss for the last time. As we go down the street one of the officers shows me the great padlock which he has carried off in his pocket as a souvenir! If he had been a Samson, he would doubtless have preferred the gate itself! The people stand at doors and windows and wave us farewell. Auf Wiedersehen! Some of the passers-by insist on shaking us by the hand and wishing us God-speed. We have become familiar to them--and not too fearful--during the past five months. At the station there is something of a crowd; as the train moves out there is something of a cheer. By nine o’clock we are once more in Berlin. We hire a whole squadron of dilapidated hackney coaches and move in somewhat whimsical procession for an hour through the already dark and almost deserted streets. * * * * * Warnemünde. We pass immediately from the train to the quay, where the Danish ship _Prins Christian_ is lying with steam up. A Danish officer is in waiting at the gangway, and as each officer answers to his name he passes over the ship’s side--a free man once more. Lieut. Kruggel descends to the saloon to bid us good-bye. He shakes hands all round. “Es ist vollbracht,” I said. “Es ist vollbracht,” he replied. And with a military salute, he turned, and, a suggestion of sadness in the stoop of his shoulders, made his way up the companion ladder. THE END. FOOTNOTE: [1] Two days later, in the train for Copenhagen, I gave up my seat willingly to a little boy with a face of great intellectuality, who was obviously in a very delicate state of health. This was accepted gratefully for the lad by the two Danish gentlemen who had him in charge. They told me that he was the son of Herr Duncker, Professor of Philosophy in the Berlin University, and one of the leaders of the Spartacusbund; that they were taking him to Copenhagen, where his elder brother already was, partly because he was suffering from malnutrition, but principally for safety, neither his father nor mother expecting to survive the Revolution. A sister of eighteen or nineteen stays with her parents. The boy’s guardians also informed me that the lad, who was only nine years old, already wrote verse which would not be discreditable to a young man, and that his brother had in a few months become the chief scholar in the Copenhagen school. * * * * * BALLADS OF BATTLE AND WORK-A-DAY WARRIORS By Lieut. JOSEPH LEE _SOME PRESS OPINIONS_ _The Times._--“There is real fibre and lifeblood in them, and they never fail to hold the attention.” _The Spectator._--“Of the verse that has come straight from the trenches, the BALLADS OF BATTLE are among the very best.”