And then one is never certain.  People were everywhere aghast to find even their life-long friends in the pay of the enemy.  A large military establishment draws spies as certainly as a carcass draws vermin; the one is the inevitable concomitant of the other.  It is the Nemesis of all human brotherhood.

Now to be taken as a prisoner of war was to most men more of a Godsend than a tragedy.  The prisoner knew that he was to be corralled in a camp.  But he was alive at any rate and he had but to await the end of the war—­then it was home again.  The pictures show phalanxes of these men smiling as if they were glad to be captives.  On the other hand there are no smiles in the pictures of the spies and francs-tireurs.  They know that they are fated for a hasty trial, a drumhead decision, and to be shot at dawn.  The prospect of that walk through the early morning dews to the execution-ground made their shoulders droop along with their spirits.

With these thoughts on our mind we held our tongues and kept our eyes on the door, wondering who would be the next guest to arrive, and mentally conjecturing what might be the cause of his incarceration.

The last arrival wore a small American flag wound round his arm, and around his waist he wore a belt which contained 100 pounds in gold.  He spotted me, and, coming over to my corner, opened up a conversation in English.  I thought at first that this was merely a clumsy German ruse to trap me into some indiscreet talking.  To his kindly advances I curtly returned “Yeses” and “Noes.”

His name was Obels, a Belgian by birth but speaking English as well as German, French, and Flemish.  He was an invaluable reporter for a great Chicago paper, and in his zeal for news had run smack into the Germans at Malines, and had been at once whisked off by automobile to Brussels for trial as a spy.  He had a passionate devotion to his calling.  No mystic could have been more consecrated to his Holy Church.  I fully believe that he would have consented to be shot as a spy with a smile on his face if he could have got the story of the shooting to his paper.  He was one of the most straightforth fellows I have ever met, and yet I regarded him there as I would a low-browed scoundrel.  For a long time I would not speak to him.  I dared not.  He might have been a spy set to worm out any confidences, and then carry them to Javert.

Left to himself, each man let his most pessimistic thoughts drag his spirits down.  Gloom is contagious, and it soon became as heavy in the room as the gray clouds of smoke.  The one bright, hopeful spot was the lone woman prisoner.  She alone refused to succumb to the depressing atmosphere, and sought to play woman’s ancient role of comforter.  She tried to smile, and succeeded admirably, for she was very pretty.  A wretched-looking lad huddled up on a bag in the corner tried to reciprocate, but with the tears glistening in his eyes he made a sorry