The night before, by chance, we had heard that Gerbeaux and Stevens were under detention, but until this moment of meeting we did not know their exact whereabouts.  They—­the Frenchman, the American and the Belgian—­ had started out from Brussels in an auto driven by the African, on Monday, just a day behind us.  Because their car carried a Red Cross flag without authority to do so, and because they had a camera with them, they very soon found themselves under arrest, and, what was worse, under suspicion.  Except that for two days they had been marched afoot an average of twenty-five miles a day, they had fared pretty well, barring Stevens.  He, being separated from the others, had fallen into the hands of an officer who treated him with such severity that the account of his experiences makes a tale worth recounting separately and at length.

We stayed in that place half an hour—­one of the longest half hours I remember.  There was a soldier with a fixed bayonet at the door, and another soldier with a saw-edged bayonet at the window, which was broken.  Parties of soldiers kept coming to this window to peer at the exhibits within; and, as they invariably took the civilians for Englishmen who had been caught as spies, we attracted almost as much attention as the Turcos in their funny ballet skirts; in fact I may say we fairly divided the center of the stage with the Turcos.

At the end of half an hour the lieutenant bustled in, all apologies, to say there had been a mistake and that we should never have been put in with the prisoners at all.  The rain being over, he invited us to come outside and get a change of air.  When we got outside we found that our two bicycles, which we had left leaning against the curb, were gone.  To date they are still gone.

Again we sat waiting.  Finally it occurred to us to go inside the little taverne, where, perhaps, we should be less conspicuous.  We went in, and presently we were followed by Lieutenant Mittendorfer, he bringing with him a tall young top-sergeant of infantry who carried his left arm in a sling and had a three weeks’ growth of fuzzy red beard on his chops.  It was explained that this top-sergeant, Rosenthal by name, had been especially assigned to be our companion—­our playfellow, as it were;—­ until such time as the long-delayed automobile should appear.

Sergeant Rosenthal, who was very proud of his punctured wrist and very hopeful of getting a promotion, went out soon; but it speedily became evident that he had not forgotten us.  For one soldier with his gun appeared in the front room of the place, and another materialized just outside the door, likewise with his gun.  And by certain other unmistakable signs it became plain to our perceptions that as between being a prisoner of the German army and being a guest there was really no great amount of difference.  It would have taken a mathematician to draw the distinction, so fine it was.