That night I drove by motor to a point on the outskirts of the city, where a Zeppelin was moored. It was one of those which had formerly been fitted up for passenger service, and was now used when quick transportation of a small number of men was necessary. There were several officers of the General Staff whose immediate presence at Coblenz, where the Emperor had stationed himself, was needed; and since speed was essential we were to travel this way. The miles that lay between Berlin and Coblenz seemed but so many rods to me, as I sat in the salon of the great airship, resting and talking to my fellow passengers. One would have thought that we had been traveling but a few moments when suddenly there loomed below us in the moonlight, the twin fortresses of Ehrenbreitstein and Coblenz, each built upon a high plateau. Between them, in the valley, the lights of the city shone dimly; in the center of the town was the Schloss, where the Emperor awaited us. But I did not see the Emperor that night. Instead, I was shown to a room in the castle—a room lighted by candle—and there my attendant bade me goodnight. At half-past three I was awakened by a knock at the door. “Please dress,” said a voice. “His Majesty wishes to see you at four o’clock.” It was still dark when at four o’clock I entered that room on the ground floor of the castle where the Emperor of Emperors worked and ate and slept. In the dim light I saw him, bent over a table on which was piled correspondence of all kinds. He did not seem to have heard me enter the room, and as he continued to work, signing paper after paper with great rapidity, I looked down and noticed that, in my haste to appear before him on time, I had dressed completely save for one thing. I was in my stocking feet. I coughed to announce my presence. He looked up then, and I saw that he wore a Litewka, that undress military jacket which is used by soldiers for stable duty, and which German officers wear sometimes in their homes. But the face that met mine, startled me almost out of my composure; for it was more like the countenance of Pancho Villa than that of Wilhelm Hohenzollern. That face, as a rule so majestic in its expression, was drawn and lined; his hair was disarranged and showed numerous bald patches which it ordinarily covered. And his moustaches—for so many years the target of friend and foe and which were always pointed so arrogantly upward—drooped down and gave him a dispirited look that I had never seen him wear before. In a word, it was an extremely nervous and not a stolid, Teutonic person who sat before me in that room. And it was not an assertive, but merely a very tired human being, who finally addressed me. “I am sorry to have been obliged to call you at this hour,” he said, “but I am very busy and it is important that I should see you.”