heads to sink the ship if she were sighted by an enemy ship added to the fears of all of us.  None of us dared undress thoroughly before turning in—­when we did turn in, lifebelts were always kept handy, and we had to be ready for any emergency at any moment.  And, as will be readily understood, our imaginations had been working horribly during the last few months, especially since we began to encounter the rough weather and the winter gales in the grey and cheerless wastes of the North Atlantic.  The natural conditions were bad enough in all conscience.  But, in addition, we had the knowledge that if we survived them we were going into German captivity.  Could anything be worse?

There had been no boat drill, and the lifeboat accommodation was hopelessly inadequate for more than eighty people now on board.  It is certain, with the mixed crew on board, that there would have been a savage fight for the boats.  The prospect, looked at from any point of view, was alarming, and one of the greatest anxiety for us all.  Physical distress and discomfort were not the only things we had to contend with—­the nervous strain was also very great, and seemed endless.

On February 22nd we rounded the Naze.  Here, we thought, we should certainly come across some British vessel.  But that day and the next passed—­it seemed as if we too were to get in during the week-end!—­and hope of rescue disappeared.  Many messages had been dropped overboard in bottles and attached to spars, etc., during the voyage, but all, apparently, in vain.  The bearing of the Germans towards us became markedly changed, discipline more rigid, and still greater care was taken that no vestige of light showed anywhere at night.  We were almost in their clutches now, the arrival at Kiel and transference to Ruhleben were openly talked of, and our captors showed decided inclination to jeer at us and our misfortunes.  We were told that all diaries, if we had kept them, must be destroyed, or we should be severely punished when we arrived in Germany.  Accordingly, those of us who had kept diaries made ready to destroy them, but fortunately did not do so.  I cut the incriminating leaves out of mine, ready to be torn up and thrown overboard.  I had written my diary in Siamese characters during the whole time, so the Germans could not have gained much information from it.

Sunday, February 24th, dawned, a cold, cheerless day.  “I suppose this time next week we shall be going to church in Kiel,” said one of the prisoners to the chief mate at breakfast.  “Or,” the latter replied, “I might be going to church with my brother, who is already a prisoner in the Isle of Man!” We were now in the comparatively narrow waters of the Skager-Rack, and we saw only one vessel here, a Dutch fishing boat.  Our last chance had nearly gone.  Most of us were now resigned to our fate and saw no hope—­in fact, I had written in my diary the day before, “There is no hope left, no boat of ours to save us”—­but