“It may be true, as you say,” he replied, “but meanwhile I’ll have to take you to my chief, Captain von Boehlen.”

John’s heart sank a little when he heard the name von Boehlen.  Fortune, he thought, had played him a hard trick by bringing him face to face with the man who had least cause to like him.  But he would not show it.

“Very well,” he said; “which way?”

“Straight before you,” said the officer.  “I’d give you a mount, but it isn’t far.  Remember as you walk that we’re just behind you, and don’t try to run away.  You’d have no chance on earth.  My own name is Arnheim, Wilhelm von Arnheim.”

“And mine’s John Scott,” said John, as he walked straight ahead.

They passed through a wood and into another field, where a large body of Prussian cavalry was waiting.  A tall man, built heavily, stood beside a horse, watching a distant corner of the battle through glasses.  John knew that uncompromising figure at once.  It was von Boehlen.

“A prisoner, Captain,” said von Arnheim, saluting respectfully.

Von Boehlen turned slowly, and a malicious light leaped in his eyes when he saw John on foot before him, and wholly in his power.

“And so,” he said, “it’s young Scott of the hotel in Dresden and of the wireless station, and you’ve come straight into my hands!”

The whimsical humor which sometimes seized John when he was in the most dangerous situation took hold of him again.  It was not humor exactly, but it was the innate desire to make the best of a bad situation.

“I’m in your hands,” he replied, “but I didn’t walk willingly into ’em.  Your lieutenant, von Arnheim here, and his men brought me on the points of their lances.  I’m quite willing to go away again.”

Von Boehlen recognized the spirit in the reply and the malice departed from his own eyes.  Yet he asked sternly: 

“Why do you put on a French uniform and meddle in a quarrel not your own?”

“I’ve made it my own.  I take the chances of war.”

“To the rear with him, and put him with the other prisoners,” said von Boehlen to von Arnheim, and the young Prussian and two Uhlans escorted him to the edge of the field where twenty or thirty French prisoners sat on the ground.

“I take it,” said von Arnheim, “that you and our captain have met before.”

“Yes, and the last time it was under circumstances that did not endear me to him.”

“If it was in war it will not be to your harm.  Captain von Boehlen is a stern but just man, and his conduct is strictly according to our military code.  You will stay here with the other prisoners under guard.  I hope to see you again.”

With these polite words the young officer rode back to his chief, and John’s heart warmed to him because of his kindness.  Then he sat down on the grass and looked at those who were prisoners with him.  Most of them were wounded, but none seemed despondent.  All were lying down, some propped on their elbows, and they were watching and listening with the closest attention.  A half-dozen Germans, rifle in hand, stood near by.