It was then that Eileen O’Connor was most brilliant. She described in a simple and girlish way how she and her pupils worked in their little room. While they copied freehand models, one of them read out to the others, books of romance, love, adventure, to forget the gloom of life and the tragedy of war. One of those books was Jules Verne’s “Cryptogram.” It had fascinated them. It had made them forget the misery of war. They were romantic girls, imaginative girls. Out of sheer merriment, to pass the hours, they had tried to work out the cypher. They had written love-letters to imaginary young men in those secret numbers. Here Eileen, smiling ironically, read out specimens of the letters that had been found. “Come to the corner of the Rue Esquermoise at 9.45. You will know me because I shall be wearing a blue bow in a black hat.” That was the romantic imagination of the Baronne de Villers-Auxicourt. “When you see a lady standing outside the Jardin d’Eté, with a little brown dog, speak to her in French and say, ‘_Comme il fait froid aujourd’hui, mademoiselle_.’ If she answers, ‘_Je ne vous comprends pas, monsieur_,’ you will understand that she is to be trusted, and you must follow her.” That was a romantic idea to which Eileen herself pleaded guilty. “Herr President,” said Eileen, “you cannot put old heads on young shoulders, even in time of war. A party of girls will let their foolish little minds run upon ideas of love, even when the sound of guns is not far away. You, Herr President, will understand that perfectly.” Perhaps there was something in the character of the President that made this a chance hit. All the German officers laughed, and the President shifted in his seat and flushed to the top of his bald, vulture-like head. The possession of those German uniforms was also explained in the prettiest way by Eileen O’Connor. They were uniforms belonging to three handsome young German soldiers who had died in hospital. They had kept them to return to their mothers after the war, those poor German mothers who were weeping for their sons. This part of her defence touched the German officers deeply. One of them had tears in his eyes. The list of escaped fugitives was harder to explain, but again an Irish imagination succeeded in giving it an innocent significance. It had been compiled by a prisoner in the Citadel and given to Eileen as a proof that his own hope of escape was not in vain, though she had warned him of the fearful risk. “The poor man gave me the list in sheer simplicity, and in innocence I kept it.” Simply and touchingly she admitted her guilt in smuggling food to French and British prisoners, and to German sentries, and claimed that her fault was only against military regulations, but in humanity was justified. “I am Irish,” she said. “I have in my heart the remembrance of English crimes to Ireland--old, unforgettable crimes that still cry out for the justice and the liberty which are denied my country.”