“I don’t know, but a lot of them and more coming.” He spoke a few words of command to the clerk, who pulled out a big ledger-looking book, ran his finger over its pages, and made some answer, then resumed his interrogations. “Why are you in the army?” “I like it, sir.” He smiled a wry smile, and asked, “You’ve got over that by this time?” “Not much,” I replied defiantly. “Ach!” he snarled. “You like it?” “Yes, sir.” “You are of the New Hampshire Starks, perhaps?” “My folks came from there originally.” I was amazed at his exact knowledge--and showed it. He smiled and continued, “The Cromwell Roundhead breed!” Then he questioned me sharply about the American army, to most of which I replied, “I don’t know.” I think that he got little satisfaction out of the answers. “Did you know,” he finally said sharply, scrutinizing my face closely, “a Lieutenant Nickerson of your regiment?” The question, coming abruptly, threw me a little off my balance, but I replied steadily, “I did know a person who called himself by that name; but I should not know him now.” “How’s that?” he inquired crisply. “I once thought him to be a true man, and I would not like to kill him, as I might have to do should we meet again.” “Why?” “He has turned traitor and spy. Such men should be shot.” “Ach! Then you’d kill a Prussian soldier--a gentleman?” “Yes, sir; that’s what we are here in France for!” But my own words cut me to the heart, when I had spoken them of Jot. With a gesture of dismissal he turned from me to one of the officers, and made a remark that I did not understand. But his face and manner led me to believe that he had got something out of my replies not displeasing to him. Sharply giving more orders, with more clicking of heels and salutes, he entered a near-by door to his private office. I was informed, afterwards, that this officer had, previous to the war, been a professor in one of our New England colleges. Under guard of the young soldier I have mentioned, I was conducted, limping, to the street, helped through the doorway of an isolated wall--all that was left standing of a building--and found myself in an enclosure of barbed wire. In this pen were other American officers and soldiers, and several Frenchmen. “More fish,” cried out a corporal. I was in bad humor and replied savagely: “Speak for yourself. If you think it is funny to be here, I don’t.” “It’s Lieutenant Stark!” exclaimed a soldier, coming to me and saluting. He was one of my men of yesterday’s fight. Then a captain came forward with extended hand saying, “You made a good fight. I was with the rescue party and saw some of it and heard more. Were you wounded?” “Slightly,” I said, with a motion towards the wounded arm; “but they wouldn’t have got me, but for this sprained ankle.” And I limped forward and sat down with my back to the wall. “Then you didn’t surrender?” “No, sir.” “He ain’t that breed of cats,” said my soldier--Private George Williams.