the prolonged and frantic cheers and cries of: “Bitter is going away.” But it was a serious matter, and the Boche searched in vain for some sign of pity on the faces of those who surrounded him. However, the astonishment that he read there sufficed; he took it for interest, or rather he wished so to imagine it, for he wanted to be communicative and to gain information; it was a matter of self-interest to him. Now he felt that the prisoners he guarded were men like himself. A certain feeling of respect must have sprung up within him for these Frenchmen who had seen death near, had been in danger under fire and had conducted themselves as brave men do. He shuddered on hearing them speak calmly of the horrors of war, of the sufferings of a soldier’s life, of the tortures of hunger and thirst, of the noise of the guns, of the bayonet charges, of the hand-grenades, of mortal wounds. Nothing that could terrify him was spared, and horrible detail followed horrible detail, each more realistic than the last. Every man improved upon his neighbour’s story, and those who, a few hours ago, needed to have recourse to the interpreter to understand the orders given, were suddenly found to have enough knowledge of the language of Goethe to be able to sow horror in the heart of this future warrior. A convulsive movement of his maxillary muscles clearly showed that Bitter was making a strong effort not to be altogether cast down, and to hide the anguish that was choking him. All the same, it was a poor creature that the French N.C.O.’s had before them in the place of him who had been for weeks their nightmare and terror. Mockingly the Frenchmen praised his spirit of order and method, his undoubted authority, which could not fail to make him an excellent chief, if only his warlike qualities were equal to his qualifications as a jailer. A bright career was opening before him. Bitter listened; he would have liked to escape, having had his fill of horrors, but he was obliged to empty the cup to the dregs if he wished to gather the fruit of his visit, which was to have a favour granted that he still hesitated to ask. “You are in luck’s way,” said a sergeant; “if you are made prisoner, you will be with the French. You will at least be treated as a human being, and you will have as much as you want to eat, while we continue to die of hunger.” A Parisian wit utters a wish: “If you are a prisoner I hope you may have a chief who will have as much consideration for you as you have had for us.” The astonished Boche looks at him searchingly; but he wasted his time, for he could not find on that sergeant’s face the trace of a smile. The thought that he might be made prisoner forces him to examine his conscience. He realises that he has not been a “father” to the French under his charge, so he hesitates. Then, as it was the subject on which he wished to touch, he decided not to let it drop.