peasant, stupefied more than terrified, puzzled why these soldiers
were coming down into their quiet little villages to fight out their
quarrels. The women were crying out to Mary and all the saints.
Indeed all the little crosses along the waysides or in the walls were
decked with flowers in gratitude for what had been spared them. In
most cases it was little more than their lives, their brood of
children, and their dogs that followed on.

My driver finally landed me in a shack on the outskirts of Eysden,
which boasted the name of a hotel. It had the worst bed I ever
slept in, and the only window was a hole in the roof.

I wandered out among the unfortunates, now herded in halls and
schools and packed in the homes of the friendly villagers. They
were full of the weirdest tales of loot and murder. And while there
were no tears in their eyes there was tragedy in their voices.

"It would be worth while getting over to the sources and verifying
the truth of these stories," I remarked.

"A sheer impossibility, and only a fool would want to go," was one
laconic commentary.

I kept up my plaint and was overheard by Souten, head of the
Limbourg police.

"American, aren't you?" he interjected. "Well, I have done more
work here in the last five days than I did in the five years that I lived
in New York. Had the best time in my life there. If you want to go
sight-seeing in Belgium, take this paper and get it countersigned at