Then, having killed by striking, they crawl around their prey and crush it into shape for swallowing.) But the worst of the journey was the wayside villages--dirty beyond belief, governed in a crude way by a headman whom the Germans honored with the title of sultani.

These wayside beggars (for they were no better)--destitute paupers, taxed until their wits failed them in the effort to scrape together surplus enough out of which to pay--were supplied with a mockery of a crown apiece, a thing of brass and imitation plush that they wore in the presence of strangers.

To add to the irony of that, the law of the land permitted any white man passing through to beat them, with as many as twenty-five lashes, if they failed to do his bidding.
On arriving at such a village, the first thing we did was to ask for milk.

If they had any they brought it, not daring to refuse for fear lest a German sergeant-major should be sent along to wreak vengeance later.

But it was always too dirty to drink.
That ceremony over, the headman retired and the village sick were brought for our inspection.