One scene that made his blood boil was when a French officer, a wounded man, and suffering also from hunger, let himself slide to a sitting posture on the ground.

“Here, you!” ordered the German corporal advancing threateningly.  “You have been told that you must stand in line.”

“But our comrade is weak from loss of blood,” interposed another French officer who spoke German.

“Take that for your meddling,” retorted the corporal, landing the back of his hand stingingly on his informant’s face.  It was a humiliating blow, that a prisoner could not resent in kind.

“Get up,” ordered the corporal, “or I shall aid you with my bayonet.”

Though the words were not understood by the sufferer, the gesture was.  He tried to obey, but did not rise fast enough to suit the corporal.

“Here,” mocked the fellow.  “That will help you!”

His bayonet point passed through the seat of the victim’s trousers, more than pricking the flesh inside.

“Coward!” hissed Prescott and three of four of the French officers.

“If you don’t like it, and are not civil,” raged the corporal hoarsely, “I shall beat some of you with the butt of my gun.”

Subsequently a French officer who had stepped a foot further than he was supposed to stand was rebuked by the corporal’s gun-butt striking him on the knee-cap.  After that the prisoner limped.

“These brutes ought to be killed—–­every one of them!” Dick muttered disgustedly to a French officer near him.

“Most of them will be, before this long war is over,” nodded the Frenchman, “but a soldier’s death is too fine for such beasts.”

Finally a German officer arrived.  Under his crisp orders the now long column of prisoners moved out into the road, forming compactly and guarded by at least forty infantrymen.  The order to march was given.  With only two halts the prisoners were marched some eight miles, arriving late in the afternoon at a railway yard.

Here the column was halted again for an hour, while the German officer was absent, presumably, in search of his orders.  When the march was taken up again its course led across a network of tracks to a long train.

“Why, these are cattle cars,” uttered Prescott, disgustedly, when the column had been halted along the length of the foremost part of the train.  “And, judging by the odor, these cars haven’t been cleaned.”

“They won’t be until we are through riding in them,” returned the French officer at his side.  “This is what comes to soldiers who surrender to the German dogs!”

Only one car was given over to the officer-prisoners, who were forced to climb into the unsavory car through a side door.  No seats had been provided, but there was not more than room to stand up in the stuffy car.  Fortunately the spaces between the timbers of the car sides gave abundant ventilation.

Into cars to the rear the enlisted prisoners were packed.  To stomachs that had been empty of food all day the odors were especially distressing.