turned so that they faced us; and the man on horseback lifted a carbine
from a holster and half swung it in our direction.

Realization came to us that here we were, pocketed. There were armed
Belgians in an alley behind us and armed Germans in the street before
us; and we were nicely in between. If shooting started the enemies
might miss each other, but they could not very well miss us. Two of our
party found a courtyard and ran through it. The third pressed close up
against a house front and I made for the half-open door of a shop.

Just as I reached it a woman on the inside slammed it in my face and
locked it. I never expect to see her again; but that does not mean that
I ever expect to forgive her. The next door stood open, and from within
its shelter I faced about to watch for what might befall. Nothing
befell except that the Germans rode slowly past me, both vigilantly keen
in poise and look, both with weapons unshipped.

I got an especially good view of the cavalry. He was a tall, lean,
blond young man, man with a little yellow mustache and high cheekbones
like an Indian's; and he was sunburned until he was almost as red as an
Indian. The sight of that limping French dragoon the day before had
made me think of a picture by Meissonier or Détaille, but this German
put me in mind of one of Frederic Remington's paintings. Change his
costume a bit, and substitute a slouch hat for his flat-topped lancer's
cap, and he might have cantered bodily out of one of Remington's
canvases.

He rode past me--he and his comrade on the wheel--and in an instant they
were gone into another street, and the people who had scurried to cover
at their coming were out again behind them, with craned necks and