plain and terrible language, and they were utterly duped. On more than one night while they were there an escaped prisoner was in the cellar below, with a German uniform, and cypher message, and all directions for escape across the lines. Though they seldom talked about the war, yet now and again by casual remarks they revealed the intentions of the German army and its moral, or lack of moral. With the old Kommandant she did not feel so conscience-stricken. To her he was gentle and charming, but to others a bully, and there was in his character the ruthlessness of the Prussian officer on all matters of "duty," and he hated England ferociously.
With Franz von Kreuzenach it was different. He was a humanitarian, and sensitive to all cruelty in life. He hated not the English but the war with real anguish, as she could see by many words he let fall from time to time. He was, she said, a poet, and could see across the frontiers of hatred to all suffering humanity, and so revolted against the endless, futile massacre and the spiritual degradation of civilised peoples. It was only in a veiled way he could say these things, in the presence of his superior officer, but she understood. She understood another thing as time went on—nearly eighteen months all told. She saw, quite clearly, as all women must see in such a case that this young German was in love with her.
"He did not speak any word in that way," said Eileen when she told us this, frankly, in her straight manner of speech, "but in his eyes, in the touch of his hand, in the tones of his voice, I knew that he loved me, and I was very sorry."
"It was a bit awkward," said Brand, speaking with a strained attempt at being casual. I could see that he was very much moved by that part of the story, and that there was a conflict in his mind.
