One incongruity in this well-drilled, magnificently equipped, steadily advancing army. Behind a troop of cavalry, heading a mile or so of well-filled baggage waggons, comes an old black “growler” drawn by two seedy-looking horses. It might almost be a draper’s brougham taking round millinery samples in a London street. The blinds of the carriage are modestly drawn down. It may enshrine the Kaiser or the latest patterns in soldier’s socks. History is silent. We are going through Vielsalm, a frontier town. The pace is such that I have a momentary impression of a steep street and curious silent people. We are out once more in the open country. Germany, I suppose. I feel, with the Brandenburger, that the cord is tightening round my neck each minute. Fool that I was not to tear up my papers. A Russian passport, an unsent telegram to an editor, some journalistic notes about the war—enough evidence surely to warrant my immediate death. I set my teeth and prepare my method of defence. I say to myself sternly, “Keep your head and who knows if you may not still escape.” But in my heart I have no hope. We are approaching a town of size. The foot-paths are seething with townsfolk who generously feast the soldiers as they pass through. Vacant spaces on the paths are piled with a medley of eatables. The housewives seem to have emptied the contents of their larders on the pavements, even in the roads, for the troops to help themselves. We nearly drive over an enormous pot of gooseberry jam. Many girls are buttering tartines and offering the soldiers huge glasses of milk or lemonade. Others have ready buckets filled with water for the heated men to enjoy a cooling splash over face and arms. Some are ladling out wine into thin-stemmed glasses. Flowers are thrown but not in quantity. The troops need something more practical at a time like this. We draw up at the station. I am delivered into the hands of the Bahnhof Commandant, Colonel ——. He takes me to a café and sends for the Bourgmestre. Across a red-clothed table I answer question after question until my brain begins to reel. I am frankly communicative. I admit that I am a journalist, that I have a telegram, papers, etc. The Commandant will find them, anyway. It is safer to confess first. He assures me that if my documents are in order and I can give the address of friends in Germany to whom to wire, matters may be arranged. Friends in Germany. My heart sinks. I have none. The Bourgmestre arrives at this moment. The Commandant draws him away to a distant corner. They whisper together. The owner of the café, a pretty, fair-haired woman, approaches. “Mademoiselle is English and alone?” she asks. “I am arrested as a spy,” I say.