Bob had not seen any commissioned German officers since his arrival at the prison camp, but this one he guessed to be the Commandant, by the dignified importance of his gait, and the effect he produced upon the guard and sentry. The officer approached Bob's doorway with deliberate step and clanking sword, looking keenly along the barrack front as though for anything needing his attention. He was a short, stocky, middle-aged man, with flaxen hair and a fair skin, his chin slightly raised as he shifted his bright, intelligent glance from one point to another. When he reached Bob's door and caught sight of the prisoner, he gave him a long look, then a quick nod by way of salutation. Bob returned the nod, standing silently by his table when the officer entered, followed by the sergeant with much clatter of boots. As Bob saw his face plainly he found little in it to like. The prim, set lips and cold, light-gray eyes told of a rigid and ungenerous nature; of the sort of man who prefers rules to justice. Bob had no time to make any more reflections before the major seated himself on the stool brought quickly forward by the sergeant, and, fixing his eyes on the prisoner, began a long question in rapid German, accompanied by waves of the hand to emphasize his words.

Bob silently shook his head and said in English, as soon as there was a pause in the flow of words, "I cannot speak German, Herr Major."

The great man frowned angrily, his face growing red with the quick temper that is aroused by trifles and as easily calmed. He stared at Bob for a moment, as though trying to discover whether or not he was speaking the truth, then evidently deciding that he was, he puckered his brows and began irritably in English.

"To me at once your name, your rank, your corps and their position tell. And the event of how you at our hands were taken." He stopped rather suddenly, his labored English apparently failing him.

Bob began promptly, and repeated what he had already told the officers at Petit-Bois. He had managed to satisfy them without giving any definite information, and he had little trouble now in being sufficiently vague to make his answers valueless, for his questioner did not know enough of the American positions to contradict him. The inquiry was ended sooner than it might have been by the evident unwillingness felt by the German to struggle on in English. Bob suspected that half his rapid answers had not been understood. When a pause finally ensued he took the questioning boldly into his own hands and said:

"Herr Major, as a prisoner of war, I should like to make a request."

"What is it?" snapped the officer in German, roused from his thoughts and staring with an irritable unfriendliness at the American prisoner.

"I should like more room for exercise, and sufficient food and fire." Bob thought he might as well speak his mind at once. He did not see what harm could come of his demands, which were quite within his rights, even if they should be unheeded.

The major seemed little impressed by them. He got up, nodding shortly in acknowledgment, but the only reply he vouchsafed was the inquiry, in English, "You some money perhaps have?"

Bob was surprised but he answered truthfully, "Yes, a little."

"A canteen there is." The major jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen building. "There you more food can sometimes buy. We cannot feed our prisoners as you live in America!" This was said with a flash of spiteful fury not lost upon Bob, who saw in that moment how little, beyond the most grudging sustenance, he or his countrymen could expect at German hands.

The major went out without any further words, accompanied by a shout from the sergeant to the sentries to present arms, and a great display of military stiffness on the part of Bob's guard, who seemed to be lingering about the premises for the privilege of saluting a second time. Bob drew a sigh of relief when the major's sword had clanked itself out of ear-shot along the barracks, devoutly hoping he would not make long visits in the quarters of the humbler prisoners. He felt sure they would agree with him that the less seen of the Herr Major the better.

He dropped down on the stool, now restored to his own use, and sat wondering drearily how on earth he could pass the time in any degree of cheerfulness. He regretted now not having gone outdoors while he had the chance, and decided that he must adopt indoor exercises at once if his health was not to suffer from the unnatural confinement. Getting up an appetite, though, was certainly a thing to be avoided. Bob's thoughts of the future were dim and purposeless, and he did his best just now to keep them so. He greatly hoped he would not realize the depth of his misfortune, and that the half incredulous state of mind that made him live on from moment to moment, as though his imprisonment were something strange and passing, might last a little longer. One ray of comfort he had, and he clung to it when despair seemed very near him. Solitude was the thing he most dreaded, and Captain Bertrand's friendly presence had been like a ray of light out of utter darkness. Bob had always had an affectionate family or cheerful friends around him. He did not know how to live alone and could hardly have risen above the utter depression of it. In thinking of the young Frenchman's brave calmness he found more courage to face things than he had thought he possessed.

The guard had locked his door, and Bob particularly wanted to find out about the canteen the hospitable Commandant had spoken of. He took out his money from the inside pocket lining of his blouse where it was hidden, and counted it carefully. He had just forty francs. The ten he had given to the old peasant would have been welcome now, but he did not regret them.

As the morning wore on, and the door remained locked, Bob's active body demanded movement of some kind. He tried a balancing performance with the stool, vaulted over the low table, went through the manual of arms without a gun, and had a fencing bout with an imaginary sword and opponent. Then, his invention failing him, he dropped down on his stool again and resumed his principal occupation of the past two days—wondering. He wondered what time dinner was, and if it would be more substantial than breakfast. Anyway he had the promise of food at the canteen to look forward to. He wondered if writing materials could be bought there, too, and, if so, whether a letter from here would ever reach the outside world through the Commandant's hands. He remembered that he had not asked Bertrand in what part of Prussia they were. The name of some near-by city might be more familiar to him than the town outside the camp. He could not understand why Bertrand had been kept there when the other officers were transferred, but he was very thankful for his own sake that it had been so.

After a long while the door was unlocked, to the accompanying sounds of the prisoners forming in ranks outside the barrack, and his guard appeared with the same steaming basin that had held the acorn coffee at breakfast. As he put it down on the table and turned to leave, Bob plunged into German. "I go," he began, pointing emphatically across the yard, the word canteen not being at his command, "get bread."

The soldier looked puzzled, curious, and finally a light broke over his heavy countenance. He nodded and went out, saying something in reply which Bob did not understand, but in which the word "sergeant" occurred.

Becoming resigned by now to patient waiting, Bob sat down to find what he had for dinner. So far as he could make out with the help of the metal spoon, the bowl held a kind of cabbage soup, with a few shreds of vegetables lurking near the bottom. It did not look inviting, but he was much too hungry to be critical, and he emptied the bowl in five minutes, finding the soup not bad, with another chunk of black bread to accompany it. The chief trouble was there was not enough of it. He could have eaten a whole dinner afterward without any trouble. At thought of the people at home who would so gladly send him money and supplies if only they could reach him, he resolved to try hard to get them some news of his whereabouts.

Soon after he finished eating, the sergeant with the bristling eyebrows appeared, announcing that he had come to conduct the lieutenant to the canteen.

Bob got up with alacrity, put on his helmet and heavy coat, and followed his guide out into the cold air, along the wire lane past the watchful sentry, who turned and followed in their wake. Bob was mildly amused at the idea of his attempting to escape. He had about as much chance as if he were a wild animal in an iron cage, and would have received just as cordial a welcome throughout Prussia. Whichever way he turned his eyes met lines of high wire fencing, or the glistening bayonets of the sentries patrolling the camp in every direction.

The canteen was no more than a room just off the kitchen, fitted with shelves stocked with goods. A corporal in charge was seated behind a table. He rose at sight of a customer and made the usual slight bow, after a glance at Bob's shoulder-straps. Bob saw but a scant display of eatables on the shelves, but after a careful inspection he selected two cans of herring, a small loaf of black bread to supplement his two days' ration, and a jar of strange looking yellow marmalade. For these luxuries he paid three francs and felt that his captors had got the best of it.

The bargain concluded, the sergeant led him promptly back across the yard, where several hundred prisoners had gathered, carrying picks and shovels, and evidently starting out for an afternoon's work. Bob almost wished he might join them as he looked keenly around, trying to see if the companions of his journey from Petit-Bois were there. Two big Russians, looking about them with mild, patient eyes as they leaned upon their tools, stood close by the wire netting, and, as Bob passed by, a Frenchman pushed his head in between their shoulders with a friendly smile in his direction and a nod of recognition. Bob longed to stop and ask him how the wounded men were faring, and what sort of treatment they were receiving, but the inexorable sentry dogged his steps, and a nod and smile in return was all the communication possible.

There were no writing materials on sale at the canteen, so Bob demanded some of the sergeant. In answer he merely promised to obtain them from the Commandant, and Bob foresaw another delay.

After this short diversion he paced his floor restlessly until dark, which brought with it the guard, carrying another bowl of coffee, and a welcome armful of wood. The soldier lighted the lamp and went out, leaving the door open. In a second Bob swallowed the decoction in the bowl, hurriedly made his way out and approached his neighbor's door. It was closed, but yielded to his touch, and saying softly, "May I come in, Captain?" he put his head through the crack.

The room was dimly lighted and looked much the same as Bob's own. The cot was pulled like his before the feeble fire, and on it lay the French officer, who raised his head at sight of Bob to say warmly, though with little strength in his voice, "Come in, comrade!"

Bob closed the door behind him, overcome with pity and a dreadful feeling of helplessness at sight of Bertrand's long, thin figure shivering beneath the flimsy blankets. "You are ill, Captain? What can I do?" he stammered.

Then, realizing that Bertrand was in the clutches of a chill, and in no state to answer questions, he steadied his nerves and took things into his own hands with energy.

"You've eaten nothing," he said, looking at the bowl of coffee which the guard had placed on the stool beside the cot. "This is hot, at least." He broke a few crumbs of bread from the loaf on the stool into the steaming bowl and, raising Bertrand's shivering shoulders, put a spoonful to his lips. "Take it anyway, it will warm you," he urged, finally persuading the sick man to swallow a few spoonfuls, after which he tucked the blankets about him and built up the flickering fire.

"Wait a minute," he said presently, rising and darting to the door again. In a moment he was back, bringing one of his own blankets, which he wrapped around Bertrand's shaking body with anxious thoroughness.

"Your blanket?" faltered Bertrand, as his fit of shivering slowly lessened. "You must not give me that! This will pass in a few moments. It always comes before the fever."

"I have enough," said Bob, raising a spoonful of coffee again to Bertrand's lips. "Drink all this now, can't you? I've heated it at the fire, and it will help keep you warm. I am going to find a doctor for you, if it's humanly possible."

"He comes now and then," said Bertrand, raising himself to drink the hot liquid obediently, though his breath came quick and hard as he spoke. "It was he who would not have me moved the day the other French officers were transferred. You had better go now, comrade. The guard will not leave the door unlocked again if the sergeant discovers it."

Bob nodded, looking with anxious eyes at Bertrand's face, now losing its pallor for a flush, as no longer trembling, he lay wearily motionless. Bob renewed the fire again as well as he could, and readjusted the blankets, took an unwilling leave, only consoled at seeing that the chill had passed and that Bertrand seemed inclined to sleep.

At his own door he encountered the guard who, by the light of the lantern he held, looked sullenly at his enterprising American prisoner and rattled the keys suggestively. Bob gave him no time to voice his displeasure, but on entering the room said in such German as he could muster:

"Where is the doctor? When can he come here?"

The soldier looked dubious, and muttered that he did not know.

Bob's anger was swiftly rising at this brutal neglect of poor Bertrand. He turned savagely on the guard. "Go and find out!" he shouted, in execrable German, but in a voice that roused the echo of obedience to authority in the soldier's dull mind. He went out more quickly than Bob had ever seen him move before. In a moment he was back again, and the sergeant with him. Bob repeated his demand, but got no more satisfaction than the assurance that, "The Herr Doctor will certainly be here to-morrow."

"If he isn't, you will take me to the Commandant," he declared in a burst of righteous indignation. "And now," he added, a cold blast from the door reminding him of his own need, "I want another blanket. I gave one of mine to Captain Bertrand."

Not all of this speech was comprehensible to the sergeant, for Bob's German was very strange indeed, and all the words he did not know were supplemented by French or English terms. But the blanket request he did understand and seemed highly doubtful about being able to grant. "I will try, Herr Lieutenant," was the most he would say, and a moment later Bob was left alone.

He went to bed in his overcoat, wrapped in his single blanket, for he had no hope of receiving a second one that night. The little fire that blew hither and thither, in the wind that rushed down the chimney, could not keep him from shivering, but after a while he went to sleep.

When morning dawned Bob got up to the sound of hundreds of clattering boots, and throwing off his overcoat, went through some brisk exercises for half an hour until his chilled blood ran warm again. While he did it he came to a resolution in behalf of the unfortunate Frenchman lying sick and solitary next door, and although he had little hope of gaining any favors from the Commandant or his subordinates, he resolved to make the effort. Defiance was his only weapon, a poor enough one since he was helpless in his captors' hands, but it had already achieved more with his guard than had politeness. Anyway, he felt that his angry feelings must find expression somehow.

He struggled to make the fire burn until the soldier entered with his coffee. No more bread was yet forthcoming, though thanks to his visit to the canteen, Bob still had a little. He turned to the guard, getting up from his seat on the cot before the fire. "Where is my blanket?" he demanded.

The man muttered something about the matter having been referred to the Commandant.

"Rats!" ejaculated Bob, thrusting his hands deep in his trousers pockets and staring disgustedly at the guard's heavy red face.

The soldier's little blue eyes lighted up with a vague alarm. He evidently felt the American to be an unknown quantity, of whom anything might be expected. Bob had already noticed furtive glances cast at him, as though sudden violence on his part was not unlikely. He felt decidedly like realizing the guard's suspicions now.

"Go get the sergeant," he said at last, speaking more calmly.

When the man had gone Bob took the opportunity to visit Bertrand, whom he found asleep with his untasted breakfast beside him, the blankets tossed about his cot bearing witness to a troubled night. Bob touched his hand and felt it hot and dry. He went softly out and found the sergeant awaiting him.

"Where is the doctor?" was Bob's first inquiry.

"He will come," the sergeant assured him, with such certainty that Bob felt there was some reason to believe him.

He pointed across to the canteen, saying firmly, "I will buy a blanket now."

No objection was raised to this, and he decided that it was probably just what was expected of him. At the canteen he found a small stock of thin, gray blankets, one of which he bought, reluctantly paying for it twelve francs out of his remaining thirty-seven. He bought, also, for seven more francs, a cotton shirt, a razor, and another loaf of bread.

As they recrossed the yard twenty minutes later, through the midst of a crowd of Russians, Bob saw an officer coming out of Bertrand's room. He quickened his steps on the sergeant's informing him that this was the Herr Doctor who had come as promised. Bob met him in the narrow space before the barrack and spoke eagerly, after a quick bow of salutation, which the other gravely returned.

"Captain Bertrand—do you think he is any better?"

The military doctor surrendered the leather case he carried to an orderly who followed him and looked attentively at Bob, seeming more struck by his atrocious German than by what he had said. He was a gray-haired, shrewd-looking man, with a quiet, self-contained manner. In a moment he said in English:

"I can speak English a little. What would you say?"

Bob answered, with great relief at the loosening of his tongue, "I wish to ask you about Captain Bertrand. He seems very ill. Is there nothing that can be done for him? He has no care at all—I don't understand it." Bob's indignation got a little the better of him. His face flushed and his voice hardened.

The doctor nodded. "He should be transferred to a hospital. But with present difficulties it may two or three weeks take."

"Well, have you left him anything? Any quinine? I could give it to him in whatever doses you prescribe."

The doctor glanced keenly at the eager young American. His face seemed to say that Bob spoke without knowing all the facts. "I have left a little—yes," he assented. "Enough is not to be had."

Bob struggled with his feelings, uncertain whether the doctor's calmness was callous indifference or if he were simply doing his best with inadequate supplies and help. He thought he detected a little regret and human interest in his voice, in speaking of Bertrand's sad case, but the German was not disposed to be communicative. He seemed ready to move away now, but Bob took a sudden resolution.

"At least, doctor, you can obtain permission for me to sleep in Captain Bertrand's room and look after him until the fever goes. It is cruel to leave him alone with no help or companionship. Let me take care of him until you can arrange for his transfer."

The doctor thought silently for a moment. "I can see no objection to that," he said at last. "I will do it, if possible it is."

He nodded in a not unfriendly way, and walked quickly off, leaving Bob saying to himself in doubtful irritation, "Will you really do it, or just say you will do it, like the others?" He had somewhat more confidence in this man than in the other Germans about him, for he felt that a doctor's fellow-feeling extends with his profession beyond the borders of his own country, though he judged only by the French and British and American doctors he had seen among the enemy's wounded.

When he reached the door of his room the sergeant was standing by his table, and at sight of him Bob's spirits gave a sudden bound. On the table were laid some sheets of paper, envelopes, half a dozen post-cards, a few stamps and a pencil. The sergeant took note of the amount on his fingers and after a hasty calculation said, "Two francs, Herr Lieutenant."

Bob produced them, desperately eager for the chance to write, however hopeless such an attempt might be. But first he took advantage of the remaining free moments to visit Bertrand's room. The Frenchman was sitting on his cot, looking spent and weary, but at sight of Bob he smiled and held out his hand.

"My friend, you must take back your blanket," he said earnestly, as Bob approached the cot and sat down beside him. "I did not think last night when you so generously left it."

Bob reassured him on that score, and hastily told of his interview with the doctor, and of the hope he felt of being allowed to sleep in Bertrand's room. This seemed to afford the sick man great comfort. He silently shook Bob's hand with a grateful look that told more than words of the lonely misery he had suffered. His fever had gone down, though his thin face was still flushed and his eyes over-bright. Bob heated over the fire the coffee left from breakfast and made him drink it, though he could not be persuaded to eat the hard bread. Bob's own stores of herring and pumpkin-seed marmalade were alike useless. He resolved to ransack the canteen again for something palatable, for Bertrand was rapidly losing strength on his meagre diet.

Bob did not dare lead him to count on having his company at night until permission was assured. But he felt, when he left him, that even the hope had brought a little cheerfulness into the unfortunate officer's long day, which he must pass lying spent with fever in his lonely prison. Bob wanted to ask him if his letters had been answered, and what chance there was of receiving news from home or of sending it there, but he was afraid of awakening unhappy thoughts, and decided to postpone his questions until Bertrand's fever should have entirely gone.

He sat down at his own table, after the doors were locked again, and slowly took up the indelible pencil lying on the paper before him, with a sad look coming over his face. Longings for home and freedom wrenched his heart now as he thought of what to write, and the hopelessness of trying to say anything, since all must pass under the eyes of the Commandant, made him lay down his pencil almost in despair. But to assure his family that he was alive and well was his greatest wish, and he felt a reasonable hope of having this much sent on.

At last he chose the post-cards, and writing the brief news that he was well, a prisoner in Germany, and sent his love to all at home, he addressed three of them to his mother, his father and to Lucy, hoping that one of the three might find its way in time to Governor's Island. Considering the difficult and roundabout means of transportation, coupled with little willingness on the part of his captors to fulfil the prisoners' wishes, he saw, as he thought it over again, that the chances were slim.

As he wrote Lucy's name her face came before him, as she had looked when he said good-bye to her three months before. Her eyes were bright with tears, but she was bravely smiling, and he could hear her voice again, gay and cheerful, but with a world of tender affection behind it as she said, "We'll never stop thinking of you!"

He knew she never had, and the constant thoughts of those who waited for him were the source of more courage than they knew, now that Bob in his loneliness had such need of courage. But he felt, just then, he would give anything on earth for the sight of one familiar face among the strangers about him, of whom only Bertrand and the French soldier prisoner had given him the grateful tribute of a friendly glance. Few wishes were granted in that prison camp, but at this time of strange happenings Bob's wish was nearer fulfilment than he dreamed.

Dinner was no more substantial than yesterday's, but Bob helped it out with a pickled herring. While he was eating it without enthusiasm, a vision of Karl's cream-puffs, as they had so often come, at Bob's special request, puffy, round and inviting, to the Gordons' table, made him smile with a touch of irony. It would be hard work persuading Karl to make him any now, supposing the two met again.

In the afternoon, the sergeant brought him the welcome news that he would be permitted to sleep in Bertrand's room. Eager to make sure of the privilege, Bob asked to have his cot moved immediately, and two soldiers carried it into the next room at the sergeant's orders. Bob stood in his doorway while this was going on, looking curiously at a little group of what he guessed, from the numerous guards about them, to be newly-arrived prisoners, though they were too far off to be distinguished. He asked his guard who they were, without expecting a satisfactory answer, for the soldier was always non-committal, whether from natural sullenness or in obedience to orders, Bob could not decide. But this time his eyes brightened at the question, and after glancing down toward the further barracks which the men had entered, he gave Bob a queer look and said, "American prisoners."

"What!" Bob's self-control was gone for a moment. He stared at the man in blank amazement.

The guard nodded, adding with a kind of triumph in his voice, "Eleven were brought in this morning."

That was the extent of his information, but Bob pondered it most of the night, while he kept alive the fire and tended his feverish companion, whose greatest comfort it seemed was to know Bob's friendly presence close at hand.

In the morning he went out the moment the door was unlocked, leaving his wretched coffee untasted. A light snow had fallen during the night, and the air was cold and sparkling, with the sun just risen. This was the hour when all the prisoners crossed the yard for breakfast. He searched hundreds of faces, French and Russian, before at last a little knot of downcast United States infantrymen came by, soup basins in hand. Some of them were wounded. Bob's heart beat hard and his eyes filled with hot tears of sympathy and comradeship. He could hardly see their faces, but all at once a hand was thrust through the wire netting beside him, and a voice trembling with excitement cried, "Bob Gordon!"

Bob stared through the netting with misty, unbelieving eyes.

"Lieutenant, I meant to say," stammered Sergeant Cameron, as Bob, too overcome at the sight of him to answer, clasped his outstretched hand.

"We won, though," the sergeant said in his ear, in the instant before his hand was withdrawn to resume the march across the yard, and those words echoed in Bob's ears above the noisy orders of the German guards ordering on the men, who, one and all, had paused to watch the meeting between the two Americans with friendly, understanding eyes.

The prisoners were from his father's regiment. This was the thought uppermost in Bob's mind. But they had won the fight!