Passing along several gloomy passages and ascending two flights of stairs, Kenneth was ushered into a large, well-lighted room overlooking the city square. From without came the noise and bustle of hundreds of troops. Several regiments, having recently arrived, were partaking of a meal in the open, the food being cooked in large portable kitchens, the smoke from which drifted in through the open windows of the room.
Seated at a massive oak desk was an officer in the uniform of the German General Staff. Behind him stood a major and two captains. At a writing desk against the wall, facing the windows, sat a military clerk. The soldiers of Kenneth's escort lined up behind him, the sergeant standing rigidly at attention on his right. Of Rollo there were no signs.
For some moments Colonel von Koenik, the president of the court, regarded the lad before him with a fixed glare. Kenneth met the president's gaze unflinchingly, yet he realized that there was a menace in the German's manner. It was a hatred of England and of all men and things English.
Finding that he could not browbeat the prisoner, von Koenik rasped out a few words to the major who stood behind him. With a stiff salute the latter advanced to the side of the president's desk.
"What is your name, prisoner?" he asked in fairly good English, although there was a tendency to substitute the letter "b" for "p" in most of his words.
Kenneth told him. The major referred to a paper that he held in his hand.
"You are English? What are you doing in Brussels?"
"I am a soldier in the Belgian service."
"In the Belgian service perhaps; but a soldier—no, never."
"Pardon me, sir," protested Kenneth; "I am a corporal of the 9th Regiment of the Line."