Oh, yes, we knew them. They too were newspaper men, at least three of them. Two represented Italian papers, one an Amsterdam journal. The fourth was an Italian nobleman whose name was frequently in the social columns because of his dinners at the Ritz and Armenonville. He explained that he had accompanied the others as their gentleman chauffeur, driving his own big car. It had been requisitioned for the army at the same moment they themselves were escorted into the cow yard three days before. The Colonel stood by during our greetings, still twirling his mustache. He addressed the quartet.
"Since you know these men," he said, indicating us, "you will please explain to them where they will sleep and the arrangements for food."
Then he turned to us, at the same time pointing to a corner of the building nearest the wall gate. He said:
"You are permitted to remain out of doors as much as you like, but you are not to pass that corner. If you do—well—" a shrug and the monocled smile, "the soldier at the gate will probably shoot."
The sage of our party became sarcastic.
"I presume that the soldier's gun is loaded," he remarked.
"Oh, yes," the Colonel still smiled. "The gun is always ready—also the bayonet—it would be regrettable—" again he shrugged his shoulders.
"But why are we prisoners," the sage one demanded, "and where is our pass? If we cannot go on we will go back to Paris. What right have you to keep us here?"
The Colonel raised his eyebrows and spread out his hands. His tones were so polite as to be almost apologetic.