We went to the place where the cards were kept, which was in charge of a Polish Jew, who also acted as interpreter.  He had been in the Russian Army, and had been taken prisoner in the early days of the war.  There was a young Russian with him who did clerical work in the camp.  They were both in tears.  The Jew walked up and down, wringing his hands and calling upon the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of Jacob!  Sometimes he put his hands over his ears... for the cries of his countrymen came through the window.

When we got our cards, we wrote about what had happened.  Some of the cards were written to John Bull; some to the British War-Office; some to the newspapers; some to friends in England, imploring them to appeal to the United States Government at Washington, to interfere for humanity’s sake.  We eased our minds by saying, as far as we could say it on a card, what we thought of the Germans.  Every card was full of it, but the subject was hardly touched.  I never knew before the full meaning of that phrase, “Words are inadequate.”

Words were no relief!—­we wanted to kill—­kill—­kill.

* * *

The running of the Russians went on for days.  Every one of them who came in from the farm got it—­without mercy....  Different N.C.O.’s performed the gruesome rites...

* * *

We had only one hope of quick results.  The Commandant of the camp at Celle—­that is the main Cellelager—­had an English wife, and had, perhaps for that reason, been deprived of his command as an Admiral of the fleet.  We hoped he would hear of our cards—­or, better still, that his wife might hear.

The first indication we had that our cards had taken effect was the change in the soup.  Since the first day of the trouble, it had been absolutely worthless.  Suddenly it went back to normal—­or a little better.

Suddenly, too, the running of the Russians stopped, although others of them had come in.  A tremendous house-cleaning began—­they had us scrubbing everything.  The bunks were aired; the blankets hung on the fence; the windows cleaned; the yard was polished by much sweeping.  Evidently some one was coming, and we hoped it was “the Admiral.”  At the same time, the N.C.O.’s grew very polite to us, and one of them, who had been particularly vicious with the Russians, actually bade me “good-morning”—­something entirely without precedent.

Every day, I think, they expected the Admiral, but it was two weeks before he came.  His visit was a relief to the Germans, but a distinct disappointment to us.  Apparently, the having of an English wife does not change the heart of a German.  It takes more than that.  He did not forbid the running of the Russians; only the bayonet must not be used.  The bayonet was bad form—­it leaves marks.  Perhaps the Admiral took this stand in order to reinstate himself again in favor with the military authorities, and anxious to show that his English wife had not weakened him.  He had the real stuff in him still—­blood and iron!