His speech completed, he shouted an order.  Soldiers hurried in, and at the word of command they commenced to load their rifles.  I was quite at a loss to understand this action, but my heart thumped and a queer, indescribable feeling came over me.  I felt sick and faint, especially when I saw the men, upon completing loading, form up in two lines.  Like a flash it dawned upon me that according to German military form I had been found guilty of the charge levelled against me, and that the harangue of the pompous individual was no more or less than the promulgation of my death sentence!  For what else could these men have loaded their rifles so ostentatiously?  And why were there so many soldiers?  Their numbers plainly indicated the firing party.

My eyes grew dim with tears in spite of myself.  Visions of my wife and family at home, waiting and momentarily expecting “Daddy,” who had notified them of his return, flitted through my brain.  A lump rose in my throat and for the first time I was within an ace of breaking-down.  But smothering my thoughts, I pulled myself together.  Assuming a bravado I was far from feeling, I demanded to see the Commandant.  To my surprise the request was granted.  This functionary was seated at his desk in a corner of the room, and I was escorted to him.  Seeing me he curtly demanded what I wanted.

“Can I write to my wife?”

The officer who accompanied me explained the situation, and although I did not understand what transpired I caught the words “Englische Spion!” The Commandant glared at me.

“Where is she?” he roared.

“In England!”

“England!” and the word, full of venom and hate, burst out like the cork from a pop-gun.  “Nein!  Certainly not!  It is impossible!  Get out!”

Assisted by a vigorous prod I was brought alongside my two companions.

The soldiers lined up to march.  My head was swimming, but all thoughts of my own plight were dispelled by an incident which was as unexpected as it was sudden.  At the command “March” one of the two Indian students, positive that he was now going to his doom, staggered.  I caught him as he fell.  He dropped limply to the ground, half-dead with fright, and with his face a sickly green.

“Are we going to be shot?  Are we going to be shot?” he wailed agonisedly.

He clutched the sleeve of a soldier, who, looking down and evidently understanding English, motioned negatively.  Then he added as an afterthought, “Not now!”

While his negative head-shake revived my drooping spirits, his words afterwards sent them to zero once more.  I hardly knew whether to feel relieved or otherwise.  It would have been far better had the soldier curbed his tongue, because his final words kept us on the rack of suspense.

We were hustled out of the room.  As we passed out I glanced at the clock.  It was just nine o’clock—­Tuesday morning, August 4.  I shall never forget the day nor the hour.  Like sheep we were driven and rushed downstairs, the guards assisting our faltering steps with sundry rifle prods and knocks.  We tramped corridors, which seemed to be interminable, and at last came to a ponderous iron gate.  Here we were halted, and the military guard handed us over to the gaolers.  We passed through the gates, which closed with a soul-smashing, reverberating bang.