As time went on I grew more adept as a farmer and bolder as my increased efficiency justified. Even Erna ceased to terrorize me. The latter relief dated from one morning in the cow stall when she exasperated me beyond all patience by her sneering denunciation of the “English swine.” I answered her as neatly as I could, but my broken German only seemed to her the funnier, the more excited I became. It reached a climax when she punctuated her argument by poking me in the face with the broom. I struck out blindly and hit her somewhere, for she fell screaming to the floor. I noted with satisfaction that I had given her a respectable clout on the nose. The skin was all broken, and presently it began to bleed. The blood frightened her into silence, and from the terrified way in which she stared at me, I believe she thought she was murdered. Indeed, I had some tremors myself, and we were mutually pleased when she showed strength enough to get up on her feet. She walked feebly through the barn to the backyard to let her nose bleed. I sprinkled some sand over the blood on the floor in the meantime, and presently the little boy who worked on the place came in. “I think you’ve killed her,” he observed solemnly, regarding me as one would a murderer waiting for execution. “She’s bled about a liter! They’ll hang you!” Not particularly reassured by this cheering prediction, I paced back and forth in the stall, meditating on the consequences of the deed. If I must go to the gallows, I resolved to do it like a Sydney Carton or a Nathan Hale. I was trying to think of the German for “I regret only that I have but one life to give for my country,” when I heard the familiar yell: “_Frühstück-k-k!_” That was breakfast. I went in, but no Erna appeared. I didn’t see her all day long. Heavens! I thought, she hasn’t vanished altogether? At last, at the supper table, I was put at ease. There, behind a huge plaster, I saw the face of my old tormentor again, tearful and subdued; but, thank God, alive! They did nothing to me for mashing Erna’s nose. I explained it to the sentry with a self-defence touch, and, _as he did not like Erna himself_, he let me off with a reprimand and the usual admonition: “Don’t forget that you’re a _Gefangener_!” I learned from this affair that, aside from the protection which a passing knowledge of German gave me, one could take a great many liberties with these simple country people, if one only made a bold face of it. On the other hand, the more one submitted to, the more one had to endure. I knew an Italian who had to work almost every Sunday, simply because he consented to work the first Sunday. I also knew of several Russians who were imprisoned in pig-stalls and others who were kicked and cuffed and slashed with knives by the same sentries who guarded us and for smaller offenses than we were constantly committing, but--until my attempted escape--none of the Englishmen there were touched. CHAPTER VIII