Once on dry land, and escorted by the villagers, we walked over the sandhills to the lighthouse, about half a mile away.  There we were received with open arms.  The kindly Danes could not do enough for us.  We had only what we stood up in; we dried our clothes, other dry garments were offered us, hot drinks and food were supplied liberally, and we were generally made much of.  We had come back to life and warmth once more.  The lighthouse staff and villagers vied with each other in their efforts to make us feel at home and comfortable.  Some of the sailors and fishermen even offered us part of their own breakfasts and dinners, which were wrapped up in handkerchiefs, ready to take to their work.  The bonny rosy-cheeked Danish girls aired all the English they knew, and wanted to hear all about it; the jolly children danced round with joy when they heard the wonderful story of our deliverance.  Every one, from the charming and dignified head of police who heard our story and examined our passports, to the humblest village child, rejoiced at our escape.  The good motherly folk at the lighthouse fairly bubbled over with joy as they chattered and poured out sympathy and busied themselves with attending to our creature comforts.

After interviews with some Danish Government officials we were taken to hotels in Skagen, the nearest town, a small summer bathing resort, just to the south of the Skaw.  It was a gloriously clear, bright, and sunny day, though very windy and cold, and the condition of the fields showed that “February fill dyke” had been living up to its reputation.  Some of us walked into Skagen, and on the way heard the most enchanting sounds we had heard for months—­the songs of skylarks—­music which we certainly had never expected to hear again.  Our spirits were as bright as the larks’ on that day, and the birds seemed to be putting into music for us the joy and gratitude we felt in our hearts.  The ladies were, of course, too exhausted to walk, and my wife got a lift in a cart in which a Danish girl and a man were proceeding to Skagen.  They asked her endless questions, and she expressed her opinions very strongly on the German treatment of their prisoners, and of the endless lies they had told us.  On arrival at Skagen we discovered that the man was the German Consul at that town!  So, for once in his life, he heard the truth about his countrymen!

After lunch, the first square meal we had had for months, we set off to telegraph to our relatives and friends, to announce we were still in the world.  It was one of our greatest anxieties on board that we could not communicate with our friends, who we knew would be grieving over our disappearance and, we feared, would have given us up for lost, for we had been out of communication with the outside world for five months.  Never daring to hope that an opportunity to despatch it might ever occur, I had many a time mentally framed a cablegram which, in the fewest possible words, should tell our friends of our