Crane hesitated--then walked down the line, hearing each tale of woe and giving advice. He remained an hour, until the last question was asked and the last tourist satisfied. But he insisted that I remain with him. He told them all that I was so unfortunate as to live in Paris, that I had a house and family there, and that I had no possible chance to get out. And so, he argued, how much better off were they than "this miserable person," for they would surely get away in few days or weeks at the latest. As they did. My last recollection of _les Américains_ with which the word poignant might be used, was the morning before the battle of the Marne. It appeared certain to all of us who remained that the entry of the Germans could be only a question of hours. I, however, was fairly happy that day, for at four o'clock that morning my family had left the city for safety. The American Ambassador had told me confidentially something I already knew--that Paris was no longer a safe place for women and children. I had set forth my own belief for days, but my wife had remained. However, she was a great believer in the American Ambassador. So when I gave her the "confidential information"--and I set it forth strong--she consented to go to England. I walked the streets that morning feeling a load off my mind. I had been up all night, getting my little family off and inasmuch as the day was too important for sleep, I took a refreshing bath and then strolled along the empty Boulevard des Capucines. I had found a shady nook on a sidewalk _terrasse_ when some one touched me on the arm. I turned and looked into the terrified faces of an American friend and his wife. "What are you doing here?" they inquired anxiously. "Why, I live here," I replied. "Won't you sit down and have something?" "Oh, no," the man answered. "We are on our way to the train; we were in the country when the trouble began. It was awful. They arrested us as spies. We only got here this morning. We have seats in the last train for Marseilles and will sail from there." "Yes," I said, somewhat uninterestedly I fear, "but you have lots of time--sit down." My friend grasped my shoulder. "Man, are you crazy?" he cried. "You look as if you were going to play tennis. You come along with us to America." "Can't do it," I replied. "I've got to stay." They stared at me silently. The woman took my hand. "Good-by," she whispered. The man took my hand in both of his. "Good-by," he quavered. "I'll tell them in New York that I saw you." "Do," I replied. I was not at all courageous in remaining in Paris. I did not remain because I so desired. I remained because, as a newspaper man appointed to cover the news of Paris, I could not run away. Then, also, the biggest news that perhaps Paris would ever know seemed so near. I bought a number of American flags that day and hung them outside my windows. I felt more fortunate than my fellow Americans who had gone away. CHAPTER V WAR