“But that’s not everything, your Excellency,” says the prisoner. “Go on,” says the High Bailiff. “After a time my wife stopped writing, and then I had a letter from a neighbour.” “What did it say?” asks the High Bailiff, and with a fierce flash of his wild eyes the prisoner tells him. Another German, who for some reason had been exempted from internment, had been put in by the authorities to help his wife to carry on the business, which was going to wreck and ruin. He was a scoundrel, and he had got hold of his wife, who had given in to him for the sake of the children. “It drove me mad to think of it, sir. That’s why I worked at night, making that tunnel under the ground, while the other men were sleeping. I wanted to get back and kill him.” “Good thing we caught you in time, then,” says the Governor. The sentence is bread and water and seven days’ solitary confinement. Mona, who wants to cry out in court, hurries home, and she is there when the guard brings the prisoner back. He looks like a picture of despair--bewildered, distraught and hopeless. Mona finds it harder than ever after this to listen to her father’s imprecations when somebody tells him of German victories. “Let God arise and let his enemies be scattered.... Root them out, O Lord, that they be no more a people.” Sometimes she makes a sort of remonstrance, and then the old man looks up at her and says again: “What’s come over thee, woman? I don’t know in the world what’s coming over thee.” Every morning on getting up she looks away over the barbed-wire fence to the open fields beyond where the young men and the girls are working, as Robbie and she used to do in the early dawn at harvest. And every night on going to bed she stares down at the bare, black, cinder-covered encampment lit up from end to end by its fierce white arc-lights. More than ever now she feels like that hairdresser, and wants to escape from the camp. Yet the strange thing is that she knows quite well that even if she could do so she would not. Oskar Heine has been made a camp captain for good behaviour, and is permitted to move about as he likes, yet they rarely meet and hardly ever speak. But one day he comes alone to the door of the dairy, and holding out something that is in the palm of his hand he says: “Do you know this?” It is Robbie’s silver lever watch. “Where did you get it?” “An old schoolfellow of mine sent it from home--from Mannheim.” “How did he come by it?” He tells her. At the beginning of the last British advance his schoolfellow had been shot immediately in front of the first line of the British trenches. He had lain there for some time with the bullets whistling over his head, crying out for his mother (as men do on the battlefield if they think they are dying), when he heard an English soldier say: