"Oh, yes," the Colonel still smiled. "The gun is always ready--also the bayonet--it would be regrettable--" again he shrugged his shoulders. "But why are we prisoners," the sage one demanded, "and where is our pass? If we cannot go on we will go back to Paris. What right have you to keep us here?" The Colonel raised his eyebrows and spread out his hands. His tones were so polite as to be almost apologetic. "Right?" he questioned. "My dear fellow, it is simply a question of the _force majeure_. And besides you are not prisoners." "Not prisoners?" we shouted in unison. "If we are not prisoners, then what are we?" "You are not prisoners," the Colonel insisted. "You are simply detained. You can neither go forward nor back until I receive further instructions concerning you. For the moment you are my guests." He bowed politely and gracefully. "And the soldier with the rifle? And the dead line at the corner of the building?" "Ah, quite so--quite so," murmured the Colonel; then bowed again to us and went out the gate. "Consequential little cuss," sputtered one of our trio. "Better play up to him," advised one of the Italians. "We have been here three days. Come see where we sleep--" They led the way to a stone outhouse near one end of the stable. A soldier with loaded rifle sat in the door. We peered within. Two cow stalls heaped with filthy straw. One of the stalls was empty; in the other we could dimly discern some huddled forms. "We sleep in the empty one," our confrères informed us. "You will sleep there too." "And those in the other stall?" I asked. "Oh, those! They are German spies captured during the day. They take them out every morning--they don't come back--fresh ones take their places." I shuddered. "What becomes of them?" No one answered and the other Italian said: "Don't talk about such things. We too are prisoners, you know." "Oh, no," said some one. "We are not prisoners--we are merely detained--guests of the Colonel." That evening the Colonel clattered into the yard on horseback. About twenty of his men were loafing about. On his appearance there was a great to-do. They sprang stiffly to attention in lines on either side of the horse. I learned later that this was the regular evening ceremony when the Colonel returned from his ride. I had to admit that he cut a fine figure on a horse. His body was slender and very straight. His hair slightly grizzled, his face grim, but with always that glassy, haughty smile. He wore high boots of the finest leather. His spurs jingled. His uniform was immaculate. His cape swung jauntily over one shoulder. His sword clanged. His medals were resplendent. His head was held high as he rigidly returned the salutes. At every moment I expected to hear the orchestra's opening bars, and the Colonel proclaim in a fine baritone, "Oh, the Colonel of the regiment am I," with the soldier chorus echoing, "the Colonel of the regiment is he."