They had an electric effect upon the prisoners, who with one accord got busy picking up microscopic and invisible bits from the floor.  To see these men crawling around upon their stomachs must have been highly gratifying to His Self-inflated Highness.  The highly gratifying thing to myself now is the fact that I did not do any crawling, but sat stolidly in my chair and stared back at him, letting my indignation get enough the better of my discretion even to sneer—­at least I persuade myself now that I did.  Outside of this little act of gallantry I am heartily ashamed of my conduct at the German Staff Headquarters.  It was too acquiescent and obsequious for some of those bureaucrats rough riding it over those helpless, long-suffering, beaten Belgians.

Having called us “Schwein,” at high noon they brought in the swill.  It was a gray, putrid-looking mess in a big, battered bucket.  They told us that it came dried in bags and all that was necessary was to mix the contents with hot water.  The mixture was put up in 1911 and guaranteed to keep for 20 years.  It looked as though it might have already forfeited on its guarantee.  There was nothing to serve it with, and search of the room uncovered no implements of attack.  Our discomfiture furnished a young soldier with much entertainment.

“Nothing to eat your stew with?  Well, just stand on that table there and dive right into the bucket.”

He was quite carried away with his own witticism, so that in sheer good nature he went and returned with six soup plates which were covered over with a thick grease quite impervious to cold water.  I had my misgivings about the mess and dreaded its steaming odors.  At last I summoned up courage and approached the bucket, using my fingers in lieu of a clothes-pin as a defense for my olfactory nerves.  A surprise was in store for me; its palatability and quality were quite the opposite of its appearance.  While I wouldn’t enjoy that stew outside of captivity, and while the Brussels men refused in any way to succumb to its charm, it was at least very nutritious and furnished the strength to keep fighting.

But it is hard to battle against the blues, especially when all one’s comrades capitulate to them.  Each man vied with the other in radiating a blue funk, until the air was as thick as a London fog.

Picture, if you will, the scene.  By a fine irony, the books on the shelves were on international law, and by a finer irony the book in green binding that caught my eye as it stood out from the black array of volumes was R. Dimmont’s “The Origins of Belgian Neutrality.”  The Belgians who were enjoying the peculiar blessings of that neutrality were sprawled over the floor or pacing restlessly up and down the room, or, in utter despair, buried their heads in their arms flung out across the table.

About three o’clock the name “Herr Peters” was called.  He had been found guilty of mumbling to his comrades that their captain was pushing them too hard in an advance.  One could believe the charge, for, as his name was called, he was sullen and unconcerned.  “You are sentenced to imprisonment at hard labor in a fortress.  You must go at once.”