At six o’clock an officer entered with one or two subordinates and a squad of soldiers.  Certain formalities had to be gone through in which I played a prominent part.  These completed the officer stood before me with all the pomposity he could command and delivered a harangue at high speed in a worrying monotone.  To me it was gibberish, but one of the men who could speak English informed me that the gist of his wail was the intimation that “if I moved a pace to the right, or a pace to the left, or fell back a pace, or hurried a pace during the march to the Wesel Arresthaus—­Wesel Prison—­I would be shot down immediately.”  I mentally decided to obey the injunction to the absolute letter, and must admit that never before or since during my life have I walked such a straight line.

With four soldiers behind with lowered bayonets, four in front and two on either side we moved out of the station.  The clock was chiming seven, but the droning of the clock was drowned by the howls of rage, snarlings, screeches, shrieks and groans of fury which went up from the mob the moment they caught sight of us.  Despite my self-control I winced.  Directly we gained the roadway an ugly rush was made.  I thought I was doomed to be torn limb from limb, for I was overwhelmed by a sea of itching hands, shaking fists, and gnashing teeth.  The escort wavered and was all but overwhelmed.  Although it quivered ominously before the mob assault it stood its ground.  Swinging their rifles over their heads the soldiers lashed out with the butt-ends.  A sharp order rang out.  We turned about and hastily returned to the station.  Here the officer demanded a double escort, which was granted, and we made another attempt to reach the Arresthaus.

But the increased parade of military power only served to infuriate the crowd still more.  They surged, swayed, and pressed, and howled, groaned, and shrieked as if bereft.  Baulked in their desire to snatch us from the soldiers they began to fling missiles of all descriptions.  Fortunately they were too excited to throw with pronounced accuracy, although my two Hindoo companions and I were struck several times with vegetables.  Then a bottle came singing through the air.  I ducked, but it struck the soldier beside me full on the side of the face to shatter into a score of pieces.  The blow was so terrific as to cause a gaping wound in the soldier’s face, extending from his temple to his chin.  The blood spurted out.  The wounded man saluted, and requested the officer to permit him to drop out to have his wound dressed.  But the officer curtly refused, and so the unfortunate soldier was compelled to walk, or rather to stumble, beside me, the blood pouring from his lacerated face.