His body, already shrunken by overwork, visibly quivered before us, the perspiration beading on his ashen face.

We had come to apprise him of his present status as a citizen under the protectorate of America.

Van Hee approached the subject casually with the remark:  “You see, you are not a Frenchman!”

“No, I am not a Frenchman,” the quailing fellow mechanically repeated.

“And you are not a Belgian,” resumed Van Hee.

He was not quite sure about disclaiming that, but he saw what was expected of him.  So he faltered:  “No, I am not a Belgian.”  “And you are not an Englishman, eh?” According to formula he answered:  “No, I am not an Englishman!” but I sensed a bit more of emphasis in the disavowal of any English taint to his blood.

Van Hee was taking this process of elimination in order to clear the field so that his man could grasp the fact that he was to all intents an American, and at last he said: 

“No longer are you a German either.”

The poor fellow was in deep seas, and breathing hard.  Everything about him proclaimed the fact that he was a German, even to his field-gray uniform, and he knew it.  But he did not venture to contradict Van Hee, and he whispered hoarsely:  “No, I am not a German either.”

He was completely demoralized, a picture of utter desolation.

“If you are not German, or Belgian, or French, or English, what are you then?”

The poor fellow whimpered:  “0 Gott!  I don’t know what I am.”

“I’ll tell you what you are.  You’re an American!” exclaimed Van Hee with great gusto.  “That’s what you are—­an American!  Get that?  An American!”

“Ja, ja ich bin ein Amerikaner!” he eagerly cried ("Yes, yes, I am an American!"), relieved to find himself no longer a man without a country.  Had he been told that he was a Hindoo, or an Eskimo, he would have acquiesced as obediently.

But when he was shown an American flag and it began to dawn on him that he had nothing more to fear from his captors, his tenseness relaxed.  And when Van Hee said:  “As the American consul I shall do what I can for you.  What is it you want the most?” a light shone in the German’s eyes and he replied: 

“I want to go home.  I want to see my wife and children.”

“I thought you came down here because you wanted to see the war,” said Van Hee.

“War!” he gasped, and putting hands up to his eyes as if to shut out some awful sights, he began muttering incoherently about “Louvain,” “children screaming,” “blood all over his breast,” repeating constantly “schrecklich, schrecklich.”  “I don’t want to see any more war.  I want to see my wife and my three children!”

“The big guns!  Do you hear them?” he said.

“I don’t want to hear them,” he answered, shaking his head.

“They’re killing you Germans by the thousands down there,” announced Van Hee.  “I should think you would want to get out and kill the French and the English.”