"The Russians are expected to mobilize next week," Spangler said. "Which naturally draws us in with the Austrians, which in turn will draw in the French. Meanwhile there's been a lot of excitement along the borders."

"Tell them that England will never fight," Gray said.

Spangler grinned. "This's why you're so fascinating, Nicholas. Even in total defeat you find small ways to defy me. But seriously now, what do you think?"

They had stopped, Spangler watching something beyond the elms, Gray sucking on a tooth knocked loose the first night.

"I think that if there is any justice you will all rot in hell."

"But how can you say that when you know as well as I that there isn't any justice, except the kind you make yourself. Anyway there's going to be a war, and you will be locked up until it's over ... or until you die in the typhus pit with the rest of them."

They had reached a ruined tennis court where executions were sometimes held; beyond lay ditches where they dumped the bodies.

"You know, actually I think this war will be good for all of us. Burn away the fat, wipe the slate clean. Or do you think I'm being too grandiose."

"Too optimistic."

"Oh, that's clever, Nicky. That's very clever." Then, finally turning back to the main path, "By the way, Margaretha still keeps asking about you, still keeps insisting that I let her see you. I think she's even grown a bit frantic, and she has refused to sleep with me.

"Why don't you rape her?"

"Too easy, Nicky. Besides, I happen to like the woman. It's just that I find her terribly frustrating. In fact, I sometimes even find myself wondering which of us has really won this skirmish."

It seemed that the countryside was alive with signs of coming war: lines of men and equipment moving east in the afternoon, a continuous echo of distant trains and sounds from the marshaling yard. There were also gunshots at dawn from the tennis court; apparently the war had resolved all sorts of problems.

Gray seemed to have been forgotten, or at least overlooked. With Spangler obviously needed elsewhere, and real events building, no one seemed much concerned about an English abstract painter. Even the more belligerent guards couldn't seem to find a reason to beat him. So they fed him, let him walk in the circular garden, ignored him.

After the third day they moved him to the regular compound and a barracks filled with about fifty other prisoners. There were towers, and then the deathstrip. Two men died the day of Gray's arrival, apparently shot on the wall while trying to escape. Eventually it came out that they were suicides.