prices.

Stewart paused for a while to contemplate this scene, far more violent and war-like than any he had yet witnessed; then, edging around the crowd, he arrived at the cathedral, the most irregular and eccentric that he had ever seen—a towering Gothic choir attached to an octagonal Byzantine nave. But that nave is very impressive, as Stewart found when he stepped inside it; and then, on a block of stone in its pavement, he saw the words, "Carlo Magno," and knew that he was at the tomb of the great Emperor.

It is perhaps not really the tomb, but for emotional purposes it answers very well, and there can be no question about the marble throne and other relics which Stewart presently inspected, under the guidance of a black-clad verger. Then, as there was a service in progress in the choir, he sat down, at the verger's suggestion, to wait till it was over.

In a small chapel at his right, a group of candles glowed before an altar dedicated to the Virgin, and here, on the low benches, many women knelt in prayer. More and more slipped in quietly—young women, old women, some shabby, some well-clad—until the benches were full; and after that the newcomers knelt on the stone pavement and besought the Mother of Christ to guard their sons and husbands and sweethearts, summoned to fight the battles of the Emperor. Looking at them—at their bowed heads, their drawn faces, their shrinking figures—Stewart realized for the first time how terrible is the burden which war lays on women. To bear sons, to rear them—only to see them march away when the dreadful summons came; to bid good-by to husband or to lover, crushing back the tears, masking the stricken heart; and then to wait, day after dreary day, in agony at every rumor, at every knock, at every passing footstep, with no refuge save in prayer——

But such thoughts were too painful. To distract them, he got out his Baedeker and turned its pages absently until he came to Aachen. First the railway stations—there were four, it seemed; then the hotels—the Grand Monarque, the Nuellens, the Hôtel de l'Empereur, the du Nord—strange that so many of them should be French, in name at least!—the Monopol, the Imperial Crown—but where was the Kölner Hof? He ran through the list again more carefully—no, it was not there. And yet that police-officer at Cologne had asserted not only that it was in Baedeker, but that it was honored with a star! Perhaps in the German edition——

A touch on the arm apprised him that the verger was ready to take him through the choir, where the service was ended, and Stewart slipped his book back into his pocket and followed him. It is a lovely choir, soaring toward the heavens in airy beauty, but Stewart had no eyes for it. He found suddenly that he wanted to get away. He was vaguely uneasy. The memory of those kneeling women weighed him down. For the first time he really believed that war might come.

So he tipped the verger and left the church and came out into the streets again, to find them emptier than ever. Nearly all the shops were closed; there was no vehicle of any kind; there were scarcely any people. And then, as he turned the corner into the wide square in front of the town-hall, he saw where at least some of the people were, for a great crowd had gathered there—a crowd of women and children and old men—while from the steps before the entrance an official in gold-laced uniform and cocked hat was delivering a harangue.

At first, Stewart could catch only a word here and there, but as he edged closer, he found that the speech was a eulogy of the Kaiser—of his high wisdom, his supreme greatness, his passionate love for his people. The Kaiser had not sought war, he had strained every nerve for peace; but the jealous enemies who ringed Germany round, who looked with envy upon her greatness and dreamed only of destroying her, would not give her peace. So, with firm heart and abiding trust in God, the Emperor had donned his shining armor and unsheathed his sword, confident that Germany would emerge from the struggle greater and stronger than ever.

Then the speaker read the Emperor's address, and reminded his hearers that all they possessed, even to their lives and the lives of their loved ones, belonged to their Fatherland, to be yielded ungrudgingly when need arose. He cautioned them that the military power was now supreme, not to be questioned. It would brook no resistance nor interference. Disobedience would be severely dealt with. It was for each of them to go quietly about his affairs, trusting in the Emperor's wisdom, and to pray for victory.

There were some scattered cheers, but the crowd for the most part stood in dazed silence and watched two men put up beside the entrance to the rathaus the proclamation which declared Germany in a state of war. Down the furrowed cheeks of many of the older people the hot tears poured in streams, perhaps at remembrance of the horrors and suffering of Germany's last war with France, and some partial realization that far greater horrors and suffering were to come. Then by twos and threes they drifted away to their homes, talking in bated undertone, or shuffling silently along, staring straight before them. In every face were fear and grief and a sullen questioning of fate.

Why had this horror been decreed for them? What had they done that this terrible burden should be laid upon them? What could war bring any one of them but sorrow and privation? Was there no way of escape? Had they no voice in their own destiny? These were the questions which surged through Stewart's mind as he slowly crossed the square and made his way along the silent streets back toward his hotel. At almost every corner a red poster stared at him—a poster bearing the Prussian eagle and the Kaiser's name. "The sword has been thrust into our hands," the Kaiser wrote. "We must defend our Fatherland and our homes against the assaults of our enemies. Forward with God, who will be with us, as He was with our fathers!"

Sad as he had never been before, Stewart walked on. Something was desperately wrong somewhere; this people did not want war—most probably even the Kaiser did not want war. Yet war had come; the fate of Europe was trembling in the balance; millions of men were being driven to a detested task. Caught up in mighty armies by a force there, was no resisting, they were marching blindly to kill and be killed——

A sudden outbreak of angry voices in the street ahead startled Stewart from his thoughts. A section of soldiers was halted before a house at whose door a violent controversy was in progress between their sergeant and a wrinkled old woman.

"I tell you we must have him," the sergeant shouted, as though for the twentieth time.

"And I tell you his wife is dying," shrieked the woman. "He has permission from his captain."

"I know nothing about that. My orders are to gather in all stragglers."

"It is only a question of a few hours."

"He must come now," repeated the sergeant, doggedly. "Those are the orders. If he disobeys them—if I am compelled to use force—he will be treated as a deserter. Will you tell him, or must I send my men in to get him?"

The sunken eyes flamed with rage, the wrinkled face was contorted with hate—but only for an instant. The flame died; old age, despair, the habit of obedience, reasserted themselves. A tear trickled down the cheek—a tear of helplessness and resignation.

"I will tell him, sir," she said, and disappeared indoors.

The sergeant turned back to his men, cursing horribly to himself. Suddenly he spat upon the pavement in disgust.

"A devil's job!" he muttered, and took a short turn up and down, without looking at his men. In a moment the old woman reappeared in the door. "Well, mother?" he demanded, gruffly.

"I have told him. He will be here at once."

As she spoke, a fair-haired youth of perhaps twenty appeared on the threshold and saluted. His eyes were red with weeping, but he held himself proudly erect.

"Hermann