ures of Germany had been built upon those of other
countries. There was a case I recalled, that of the Australian cordial
manufacturer, who desired to introduce his stuff into Germany. He was
met with a stiff tariff, but informed that if he established a factory
there there would be no need to import it. Why, now I came to remember
it, even the original "Rush-on-Paris" plan was stolen. Hilaire Belloc,
the Anglicised Frenchman, had written of it in the "London" Magazine, of
May, 1912. When that plan failed what had Germany done? Why, dug itself
in on the Aisne!

The idea of the German submarine raids was not original, as it formed
the base of a story by Sir Conan Doyle that appeared in the English
"Strand Magazine" and in the American "Colliers' Weekly" many months
before!

Germany, in fact, built its fame on assiduous imitation rather than
originality. But at what cost? Its people had degenerated in the process
from thinking humans to dumb, driven cattle, going, going, for ever
going, but non-comprehending the why or the wherefore of it all, beyond
the arrogant assumption of "welt-politik." Every refining trait was
subordinated to the exigencies of the gospel of force. Not only the
plebeian mass, but the exclusive aristocracy, revelled in the brutish
impulse that associated all appeals to reason with effeminacy and
invested the sword-slash on the student's cheek with the honor
ordinarily claimed by the diploma.

This gospel of exalting animal strength developed a living passion for
tyranny and grossness. We have seen it evidenced in the orgies that have
reddened Belgium and France.

And I had given my parole to a nation without a soul--a nation that
expected honor but knew not what it meant.

I crept to bed disturbed in mind, but resolved next day to take certain
action.

[Illustration: "I remembered our march across the great Rhine Bridge,
with its wonderful arches and great bronze horses."--Chapter VIII.]

CHAPTER XI.

The Escape from Cologne.

Next morn I rose from a sleepless couch.

Thoughts grim and gaunt had purged my brain the whole night long. There
was a flood of reasons why I should leave that German home. I chafed at
being a guest in the house of old Goche, whose animosity to the Cause
was undying. I could see that our discussions on the war were increasing
in bitterness and would, ere long, terminate in a storm. I desired to
avoid this for the sake of Miss Goche, whose friendship was th