I went back to William and sat down. "The upshot of it is, William," I said, "that I can't go. You had better consider pretty carefully what you're doing. I don't think the Moratorium was intended to work in this sort of way. I've got to report myself at the War Office, and I can't go. You may think you're acting as a good citizen should. You may not be hoarding gold or hoarding food, but you are hoarding _me_." "It doesn't apply to National Insurance payments," said William brightly, "if that's any help to you." "It only goes on till the 4th of September," I reminded him, "and the bank rate was recently as high as ten per cent. and may easily go up again. You've got to pay interest on it, you know." That was where I had him. "How will you take it?" he asked, thrusting a hand into his pocket. "In new pound notes," said I. * * * * * DIES IRAE. _To the GERMAN KAISER._ Amazing Monarch! who at various times, Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour, Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes By your behaviour; We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour, Lent to a dullish world the needed touch Of saving humour. What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear, Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians, Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere With rude concussions; Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals pale Alike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette, And could at any moment, gloved in mail, Smite like a mallet; Master of all the Arts, and, what was more, Lord of the limelight blaze that let us know it-- You seemed a gift designed on purpose for The flippant poet. Time passed and put to these old jests an end; Into our open hearts you found admission, Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friend Above suspicion. You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes; You moved among us cousinly entreated, Still hiding, under that fair outward guise, A heart that cheated. And now the mask is down, and forth you stand Known for a King whose word is no great matter, A traitor proved, for every honest hand To strike and shatter. This was the "Day" foretold by yours and you In whispers here, and there with beery clamours-- You and your rat-hole spies and blustering crew Of loud Potsdamers. And lo, there dawns another, swift and stern, When on the wheels of wrath, by Justice' token, Breaker of God's own Peace, you shall in turn Yourself be broken. O. S. * * * * * A DETERMINED ISLAND. II.