But we were not the first arrivals at Sennelager.  We were preceded by a few hours by a party of French soldiers—­captives of war.  They were extremely sullen.  Travel and battle-stained they crouched and stretched themselves upon the ground.  Whence they came I was never able to discover.  One or two of our party who were versed in the French tongue endeavoured to draw them into conversation, but to no purpose.  They either replied in vague monosyllables or deliberately ignored the questions.  There is no doubt the poor fellows felt their early capture very sorely, and had accordingly sunk into the depths of despair.  Sulky and morose they glared fiercely upon any approach, and when they did anything it was with an ill-grace impossible to describe.  Indeed, they were so downcast that they refused to pay the slightest attention to their personal appearance, which accentuated their forbidding aspect.

Killing time as best we could, doing nothing soon began to reveal its ill-effects upon those who, like myself, had always led an active life.  I approached Dr. Ascher, explained that idleness would drive me mad, and petitioned him to permit me to work in the hospital.  I did not care what the job was so long as it effectively kept me employed.  He sympathised with my suggestion and hurried off to the Commanding Officer.  But he came back shaking his head negatively.  The authorities would not entertain the proposal for an instant.

Suddenly we were paraded.  Rakes and brooms were served out to every man and we were curtly ordered to sweep the roads.  We buckled into this task.  But the dust was thick and the day was hot.  Soon we were all perspiring freely.  But we were not permitted to rest.  Over us was placed a bull-headed, fierce-looking Prussian soldier armed with a murderous looking whip.  I should think he had been an animal trainer before being mobilised from the manner in which he cracked that whip.  When he saw any one taking a breather up he came, glaring menacingly and cracking the whip with the ferocity of a lion-tamer.  We evinced a quaint respect for that whip, and I firmly believe that our guardian inwardly fretted and fumed because he was denied the opportunity to lay it across our backs.  Several of us nearly got it, however.

We were sweeping away merrily when, suddenly, we gave way to a wild outburst of mirth.  One couldn’t sweep for laughing.  The guards around us looked on in wonder.

“Christopher! boys!” I at last blurted out, “We were talking just now about recreation, and were emphatic about what we were, and were not, going to do.  I reckon this wants a lot of beating for recreation!” The oddity of the situation so tickled us that we had to collapse from laughter.

But a warning shout brought us to our feet.  Mr. Mobilised Lion Tamer was bearing down upon us waving his whip.  He lashed out.  We saw it coming and dodged.  By the time the thong struck the road we were brushing up dense clouds of dust, singing, whistling, and roaring the words, “Britons never shall be slaves!”