“A terrible charge. Espionage and conspiracy against German martial law.... I would rather have died than do this--duty.” Eileen told us that he spoke that word “duty” as only a German could--as that law which for a German officer is above all human things, all kindly relationships, all escape. She pitied him then, more, she said, than she was afraid for herself, and told him that she was sorry the duty had fallen to him. He made only one other remark before he took her away from her rooms. “I pray God the evidence will be insufficient.” There was a military car waiting outside the courtyard, and he opened the door for her to get in, and sat opposite to her. The two soldiers sat together next to the driver, squeezed close--they were both stout men--with their rifles between their knees. It was dark in the streets of Lille, and in the car. Eileen could only see the officer’s face vaguely, and white. He spoke again as they were driven quickly. “I have to search your rooms to-night. Have you destroyed your papers?” He seemed to have no doubt about her guilt, but she would not admit it. “I have no papers of which I am afraid.” “That is well,” said Franz von Kreuzenach. He told her that the Baronne de Villers-Auxicourt and Marcelle Barbier had been arrested also, and that news was like a death-blow to the girl. It showed that their conspiracy had been revealed, and she was stricken at the thought of the fate awaiting her friends, those young, delicate girls who had been so brave in taking risks. Towards the end of the journey, which was not far, Franz von Kreuzenach began speaking in a low, emotional voice. Whatever happened, he said, he prayed that she might think of him with friendship, not blaming him for that arrest, which was in obedience to orders. He would ever be grateful to her for her kindness, and the songs she had sung. They had been happy evenings to him when he could see her, and listen to her voice. He looked forward to them in a hungry way, because of his loneliness. “He said--other things,” added Eileen, and she did not tell us, though dimly we guessed at the words of that German officer who loved her. At the gate of the prison he delivered her to a group of military police, and then saluted as he swung round on his heel. The next time she saw him was at her trial. Once only their eyes met, and he became deadly pale and bent his head. During her cross-examination of him he did not look at her, and his embarrassment, his agony--she could see that he was suffering--made an unfavourable impression on the Court, who thought he was not sure of his evidence, and was making blundering answers when she challenged him. She held him up to ridicule, but all the time was sorry for him, and grateful to him, because she knew how much evidence against her he had concealed.