Flemish he knew nothing of, but he was a tolerable French scholar. As he read, his face grew long. Every scrap of news was nothing more nor less than a record of German triumphs. Paris was on the brink of capitulation; the British were thrown back upon a narrow strip of Picardy, bordering on the English Channel; the Ypres salient was flattened out; while the small American army had suffered a heavy reverse, and its surrender was but a matter of a few hours. The naval news recorded a succession of U-boat triumphs, the bombardment of several British seaports, and lastly, the failure of a determined attempt to blockade Zeebrugge. "We know with absolute certainty," he read, "that a few nights ago strong English forces left Dover with the object of making an attack upon Zeebrugge. Large bodies of troops were embarked for the purpose. The fleet was met a few miles off Dover by a flotilla of U-boats, with the result that the English were compelled to retreat in disorder, with the loss of several of their large cruisers." "Tosh!" exclaimed Alec. "This wretched rag is a 'plant'. Printed by the Huns in order to put the wind up the Belgian population. Fritz is a cunning swab, but it won't work here." He tore the offending rag into small pieces, and threw the fragments through the barred window. It was slight--almost paltry--satisfaction, but it afforded him some gratification to see the lying paper scattered to the winds. A key grated in the lock. Alec started like a school-boy detected in some slight indiscretion. "The bounders have been spying upon me!" he thought; "I said it was a plant. Hang it all! why worry? Believe my nerves are going to blazes." The next moment the door was thrown open, and Unter-leutnant Kaspar Diehardt appeared. Behind him were about half a dozen German seamen. "Anoder schwein to you company keep, Englander!" he yapped. The Unter-leutnant made a side pace. Then, propelled by several strong arms, the British pilot was bundled unceremoniously into the cell. CHAPTER XII St. George's Eve The "downed" airman was undoubtedly feeling the after effects of his crash. His forehead was swathed in a bloodstained linen-substitute bandage made of paper. He had been deprived of his leather flying-coat, triplex glasses, and fur-lined boots. Even his tunic had been taken from him. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, disclosing a pair of badly-scorched arms, while in his fiery descent his eyebrows had been singed, notwithstanding the protection afforded by his goggles. He eyed Alec curiously. Although the latter greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand, the pilot evinced no enthusiasm. There was a distinctly stand-offish manner about him that put a damper on the Sub's advances. "By Jove! That was a fine stunt of yours," remarked Seton, as a preliminary to a friendly conversation. "Think so?" queried the other with a slight drawl. "Rather!" "'Umph!"