A great ceremonial follows. The General of this vast army shakes hands with the colonel of each regiment, salutes the captains and lieutenants, and says some kindly word or two to each line of on-marching men. It is wonderful to see the spirit his cheery phrases put into their tired frames. They are no longer the envy of admiring women on Potsdam parade, these men with sweating faces and stiff limbs, but they are in good fettle none the less. One company has half a cigarette and the men pass it from hand to hand along the line so that each may have a whiff. The soldiers are all jabbering away, odds and ends of Teuton witticisms, too colloquial for me to understand, interspersed with a fire of pleasantry at the expense of the peasants. They break out at intervals into snatches of song, winding up with the inevitable “Wacht am Rhein” and “Deutschland über alles.” Although they do not march in step, “_les Prussiens_” advance in such close formation that each little company looks like one huge Falstaffian figure. The solidity of their Wellington boots is in good contrast to the colossal blunder of the pickelhauben, the spiky metal helmets covering their close-cropped heads. The Kaiserliche regiment is here, dapper Hussars, regiment upon regiment of infantry, also the Brandenburgers, well-mounted, grim of feature, with their shoulder straps buttoned over to hide the Imperial crown and embroidered N. of their Colonel-Czar. Here are some of the Landwehr, too, homely, honest men who would far rather be working at their civilian tasks. The troops greet the General as they pass him by with great bursts of “hoch” or “grüsz” rising in tempestuous outcries from myriads of dust-dried throats. They are irrepressibly gay and certain of themselves, but I think they are putting a good deal of faith in those devastating guns which went through in the silence of the night.... ARRESTED! I hear an imperious voice say, “Come down, Fräulein.” The blue-coated attaché is standing beneath my window, backed by a guard of soldiers, not in their spiked helmets, as usual, but in their soft round caps. Needless to say, I hasten to go down. The moment I had feared all along has come at last. “Who are you?” he says, looking straight into my eyes as though trying to read my very soul. “I am an Englishwoman,” I answer. “Dasz sieht mann gerade aus” (That is self-evident), he replies sternly. “Do you speak English?” I ask, just to gain time. “I know all languages,” he says stiffly, “but now we will talk German.” “Very well.” “What are you doing in Manhay?” “I am here for pleasure.” Such an imbecile reply makes the attaché glance at me even more suspiciously. “Have you papers?” “Yes.” I fly up to my room, fetch out a visiting card and a Lloyd’s bank-book and take them down to him. He turns them over. “This bank, I have never even heard of it,” he says. “You come from London?” “Yes.” “Then you know the German bank——”