I was sitting in the Caf?© Petit Parisien with Lieutenant Nikolevitch
and Mons Krastov, a merchant of Belgrade, when a file of soldiers in
charge of an officer pulled us out of our chairs and without any
further ado marched us to the Citadel. The next morning we were taken
separately into a small room where three men in the uniform of
colonels were seated at a small iron table. No questions were asked.
"You are found guilty of associating with revolutionary persons. You
were found possessing a passport not your own. You are sentenced to
be shot at sundown."
The whole thing appeared to me first as a joke, then as a bluff, but
looking closely into those high-cheekboned, narrow-eyed faces with the
characteristically close-cropped brutal heads, the humorous aspect
dwindled rapidly and I thought it about time to make a counter move.
Without betraying any of my inward qualms--and believe me, I began to
have some--I said quietly:
"I think you will find it advisable to inform M. Zolarevitch" (then
minister of War) "that Count Weringrode sends his regards."
I saw them looking rather curiously at each other and then the center
inquisitor fired a lot of questions at me, in answer to which I only
shrugged my shoulders.
"That's all I have to say, monsieur."
I was shoved back in my cell. About four that afternoon one of the
officers came to see me.
"Your message has not been sent.
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