I turned my head to look, and saw Lieutenant Jonathan Nickerson in the uniform of a German officer, clicking his heels and saluting his superior. It took all my resolution to appear unconcerned. I was so astonished that I could have been knocked down with a straw. But I knew I must be on my guard. Under direction of the officer, Jot, whom I took to be his aide, began to question me. “You are Americans?” “Yes, sir.” “What regiment?” We answered that question and several other correctly. “How came you inside our lines?” “We had been made prisoners, but escaped, and at the time your men captured us, we were trying to get through your lines to our own.” The questions that followed were mostly about our army, and were answered in such way that little information was given. Gordon told me afterwards that Jot reported to the officer, “These are ignorant Americans. They don’t know anything that is taking place a foot beyond their noses. They are not educated like our soldiers.” So we were dismissed, and marched to a place where there were other prisoners, but none that I knew. From them, however, I learned that my own division was now on that front, and also got the comforting information that the Boches were being constantly beaten. But though comforting, it made me all the more impatient to be with my regiment again. My heart had given a great throb of pain when I had seen Jot’s face. It was worn as though by mental suffering and, at one time, when we were about leaving, it had such an expression of imploring love, that all my anger and distrust gave way to sympathy at sight of his dear face. As from our first acquaintance, I could not distrust his truthfulness or his friendship when in his presence. Then, remembering that something had been dropped into my coat pocket when he passed me, I drew out a little book. It was Jot’s New Testament, that I had often seen before, and had been given him by his mother when on her death-bed. I knew how highly he prized it, and as I held it in my hand I could almost feel his presence. I opened and examined it. The page on which his mother’s name had been written, with his own, was torn out; and upon examining its blank leaves I saw nothing to indicate why it had been given me. I was about to return it to my pocket, without further examination, when on one corner of a fly-leaf I saw written “1st chapter of St. John.” Then I remembered that we used to play at secret communications with each other, by marking the pages of a newspaper. I turned to that chapter, but could discover nothing, and was about to put it away, when I saw at the bottom in faint pencil lines the word, “Marked.” On further examination I found letters and words underscored, and by patient examination I got this message. “When you see me, watch. If I remove hat, _be careful_; if I take out handkerchief, _make ready_, _I have plan for your escape_. _When Jack is in your lines, rip saddle._”