“Ten spies were shot here in the last two days,” was his one laconic communication.  As the Romanesque towers of Melun’s Notre Dame came into view, he drew up by a post which marked a mile from the city, saying,

“The rest of the way I believe you had better go on foot.”  With a polite bow and a smile he bade us adieu and was off, leaving us quite non-plussed.  But the swift ride had driven refreshment and resolution into us.  After some spirited passages with a few astounded sentries, we found ourselves in the city of our quest.

It was a small garrison center.  Into it now from every side had poured rivulets of soldiers until the street shimmered with its red and blue.  Melun had changed roles with Paris.  A desert quiet brooded over the gay capital, while this drab provincial place was now athrum with activity—­not the activity of parade but of the workshop.  The air was vibrant with the clangor of industry.  Everywhere soldiers were cleaning guns, grooming horses, piling sacks.  The only touch to lighten this depressing dead-in-earnestness came from a group of soldiers engaged in filling a huge bolster.  They playfully tried to push one of their number in with the straw.  In one doorway two men were seeking to render their uniforms less of a target by inking their brass-buttons black, while two rollicking fellows perched high upon a bread-wagon were making the welkin ring with vociferous demands for passage way.  That was what everybody wanted.  We, too, pressed forward into the throng.

Enough other civilians were scattered amidst the masses of soldiery to render us not too conspicuous.  And such a weltering anarchy it was:  men, horses, and guns jammed together in one grand promiscuous jumble.  Who was to organize discipline and victory out of such a turmoil?  But that there was a directing mind moving through this democratic chaos, the Germans later learned to know full well.  Likewise, the two strangers congratulating themselves on being lost in the vast confusion.

To get our bearings we seated ourselves in a small cafe, and were intently poring over a map when a shuffling noise made us look up.  A detachment of soldiers was entering the cafe.  Much to our astonishment, they came to attention in front of us.  They constituted the spy-hunting squad.  All day they walked the city on the trail of suspects.  To trap a prospective victim, and just as they were relishing the shooting of him to be compelled to release him, and then to drag on to the next prospect, and to repeat the process was not inspiriting.  Apparently luck had gone against them, but at sight of us a new hope lit their eyes.

Two officers, bowing politely, said:  “Pardon, Monsieur; pardon, Madame!  Your papers.”

Being held up as a spy, however nerve-racking, contributes considerably to one’s sense of self-importance.  It’s a rare thrill for a civilian to be waited on by a reception committee in full dress uniform.