unrelenting destiny which cut them off from every path of merit and
glory. They had come only to render homage to the ardent fidelity

of the man whose life had been a fearlessconfession in word and
deed of a creed which the simplest heart in that crowd could feel

and understand.
It seemed to me that if I remained longer there in that narrow

street I should become the helpless prey of the Shadows I had
called up. They were crowding upon me, enigmatic and insistent in

their clinging air of the grave that tasted of dust and of the
bitter vanity of old hopes.

"Let's go back to the hotel, my boy," I said. "It's getting late."
It will be easily understood that I neither thought nor dreamt that

night of a possible war. For the next two days I went about
amongst my fellow men, who welcomed me with the utmost

consideration and friendliness, but unanimously derided my fears of
a war. They would not believe in it. It was impossible. On the

evening of the second day I was in the hotel's smoking room, an
irrationally private apartment, a sanctuary for a few choice minds

of the town, always pervaded by a dim religious light, and more
hushed than any club reading-room I have ever been in. Gathered

into a small knot, we were discussing the situation in subdued
tones suitable to the genius of the place.

A gentleman with a fine head of white hair suddenly pointed an
impatient finger in my direction and apostrophised me.

"What I want to know is whether, should there be war, England would
come in."

The time to draw a breath, and I spoke out for the Cabinet without
faltering.

"Most assuredly. I should think all Europe knows that by this
time."

He took hold of the lapel of my coat, and, giving it a slight jerk
for greater emphasis, said forcibly:

"Then, if England will, as you say, and all the world knows it,
there can be no war. Germany won't be so mad as that."

On the morrow by noon we read of the German ultimatum. The day
after came the declaration of war, and the Austrian mobilisation

order. We were fairly caught. All that remained for me to do was
to get my party out of the way of eventual shells. The best move

which occurred to me was to snatch them up instantly into the
mountains to a Polish health resort of great repute--which I did

(at the rate of one hundred miles in eleven hours) by the last
civilian train permitted to leave Cracow for the next three weeks.

And there we remained amongst the Poles from all parts of Poland,
not officially interned, but simply unable to obtain the permission

to travel by train, or road. It was a wonderful, a poignant two
months. This is not the time, and, perhaps, not the place, to

enlarge upon the tragiccharacter of the situation; a whole people
seeing the culmination of its misfortunes in a final catastrophe,

unable to trust anyone, to appeal to anyone, to look for help from
any quarter; deprived of all hope and even of its last illusions,

and unable, in the trouble of minds and the unrest of consciences,
to take refuge in stoical acceptance. I have seen all this. And I

am glad I have not so many years left me to remember that appalling
feeling of inexorable fate, tangible, palpable, come after so many

cruel years, a figure of dread, murmuring with iron lips the final
words: Ruin--and Extinction.

But enough of this. For our little band there was the awful
anguish of incertitude as to the real nature of events in the West.

It is difficult to give an idea how ugly and dangerous things
looked to us over there. Belgium knocked down and trampled out of

existence, France giving in under repeated blows, a military
collapse like that of 1870, and England involved in that disastrous

alliance, her army sacrificed, her people in a panic! Polish
papers, of course, had no other but German sources of information.

Naturally, we did not believe all we read, but it was sometimes
excessively difficult to react with sufficient firmness.

We used to shut our door, and there, away from everybody, we sat
weighing the news, hunting up discrepancies, scenting lies, finding

reasons for hopefulness, and generally cheering each other up. But
it was a beastly time. People used to come to me with very serious

news and ask, "What do you think of it?" And my invariable answer
was: "Whatever has happened, or is going to happen, whoever wants

to make peace, you may be certain that England will not make it,
not for ten years, if necessary."'

But enough of this, too. Through the unremitting efforts of Polish
friends we obtained at last the permission to travel to Vienna.

Once there, the wing of the American Eagle was extended over our
uneasy heads. We cannot be sufficientlygrateful to the American

Ambassador (who, all along, interested himself in our fate) for his
exertions on our behalf, his invaluableassistance and the real

friendliness of his reception in Vienna. Owing to Mr. Penfield's
action we obtained the permission to leave Austria. And it was a

near thing, for his Excellency has informed my American publishers
since that a week later orders were issued to have us detained till

the end of the war. However, we effected our hair's-breadth escape
into Italy; and, reaching Genoa, took passage in a Dutch mail

steamer, homeward-bound from Java with London as a port of call.
On that sea-route I might have picked up a memory at every mile if

the past had not been eclipsed by the tremendousactuality. We saw
the signs of it in the emptiness of the Mediterranean, the aspect

of Gibraltar, the misty glimpse in the Bay of Biscay of an outward-
bound convoy of transports, in the presence of British submarines

in the Channel. Innumerable drifters flying the Naval flag dotted
the narrow waters, and two Naval officers coming on board off the

South Foreland, piloted the ship through the Downs.
The Downs! There they were, thick with the memories of my sea-

life. But what were to me now the futilities of an individual
past? As our ship's head swung into the estuary of the Thames, a

deep, yet faint, concussion passed through the air, a shock rather
than a sound, which missing my ear found its way straight into my

heart. Turning instinctively to look at my boys, I happened to
meet my wife's eyes. She also had felt profoundly, coming from far

away across the grey distances of the sea, the faint boom of the
big guns at work on the coast of Flanders--shaping the future.

FIRST NEWS--1918
Four years ago, on the first day of August, in the town of Cracow,

Austrian Poland, nobody would believe that the war was coming. My
apprehensions were met by the words: "We have had these scares

before." This incredulity was so universalamongst people of
intelligence and information, that even I, who had accustomed

myself to look at the inevitable for years past, felt my conviction
shaken. At that time, it must be noted, the Austrian army was

already partly mobilised, and as we came through Austrian Silesia
we had noticed all the bridges being guarded by soldiers.

"Austria will back down," was the opinion of all the well-informed
men with whom I talked on the first of August. The session of the

University was ended and the students were either all gone or going
home to different parts of Poland, but the professors had not all

departed yet on their respective holidays, and amongst them the
tone of scepticism prevailed generally. Upon the whole there was

very little inclination to talk about the possibility of a war.
Nationally, the Poles felt that from their point of view there was

nothing to hope from it. "Whatever happens," said a very
distinguished man to me, "we may be certain that it's our skins

which will pay for it as usual." A well-knownliterarycritic and
writer on economical subjects said to me: "War seems a material

impossibility, precisely because it would mean the complete ruin of
all material interests."

He was wrong, as we know; but those who said that Austria as usual
would back down were, as a matter of fact perfectly right. Austria

did back down. What these men did not foresee was the interference
of Germany. And one cannot blame them very well; for who could

guess that, when the balance stood even, the German sword would be
thrown into the scale with nothing in the open political situation

to justify that act, or rather that crime--if crime can ever be
justified? For, as the same intelligent man said to me: "As it

is, those people" (meaning Germans) "have very nearly the whole
world in their economic grip. Their prestige is even greater than