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These were the prisoners--one hundred and fifty Frenchmen and
Turcos, eighty Englishmen and eight Belgians. From them, as we drew
near, an odor of wet, unwashed animals arose. It was as rank and raw as
fumes from crude ammonia. Then, in the town house of the Prince de
Caraman-Chimay just alongside, the double doors opened, and the light
streaming out fell upon the naked bayonets over the shoulders of the
sentries and made them look like slanting lines of rain.
There were eight of us by now in the party of guests, our original group
of five having been swollen by the addition of three others--the
Frenchman Gerbeaux, the American artist Stevens and the Belgian court-
photographer Hennebert, who had been under arrest for five days. We
eight, obeying instructions--no, requests--found places for ourselves in
the double files of guards, four going one side of the column and four
the other. I slipped into a gap on the left flank, alongside four of
the English soldiers. The guard immediately behind me was a man I knew.


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