lady of about seventy thrust her head out of a basement window.
She was the owner of the house, and while the city had been the
fighting ground for the armies she had, through it all, bravely stuck
to her home.

"I was born here, I have always lived here, and I am going to die
here," she said, with a look of pride upon her kindly face.

Madame Callebaut-Ringoot was her name. During the
bombardment of the town she had retired to the cellar; but when
the Germans entered to burn the city she stood there at the door
watching the flames rolling up from the warehouses and factories
in the distance. Nearer and nearer came the billowing tide of fire. A
fountain of sparks shooting up from a house a few hundred yards
away marked the advance of the firing squad into her street, but
she never wavered. Down the street came the spoilers, relentless,
ruthless, and remorseless, sparing nothing. They came like priests
of the nether world, anointing each house with oil from the petrol
flasks and with a firebrand dedicating it to the flames. Every one,
panic-stricken, fled before them. Every one but this old lady, who
stood there bidding defiance to all the Kaiser's horses and all the
Kaiser's men.

"I saw them smashing in the door of the house across the way,"
said Madame Callebaut, "and when the flames burst forth they
rushed over here, and I fell down on my knees before them, crying
out, 'For the love of Heaven, spare an old woman's house!'"

It must have been a dramatic, soul-curdling sight, with the wail of
the woman rising above the crashing walls and the roaring flames.