these disciplined pawns of remorselessly efficient militarism; watching
every human being in Belgium.

"The last time I saw that statue of Liege," I remarked, peering into the
darkness as we rode into the city, "the Legion of Honour conferred by
France on Liege for its brave defence was hung on its breast. I
suppose it is gone now."

"I guess yes," said Harvard, 1914.

We went to the hotel at Brussels which I had left the day before the
city's fall. English railway signs on the walls of the corridor had not
been disturbed. More ancient relic still seemed a bulletin board with
its announcement of seven passages a day to England, traversing
the Channel in "fifty-five minutes via Calais" and "three hours via
Ostend," with the space blank where the state of the weather for the
despair or the delight of intending voyagers had been chalked up in
happier days. The same men were in attendance at the office as
before; but they seemed older and their politeness that of cheerless
automatons. For five months they had been serving German officers
as guests with hate in their hearts and, in turn, trying to protect their
property.

A story is told of how that hotel had filled with officers after the
arrival of the Germanic flood and how one day, when it was learned
that the proprietor was a Frenchman, guards were suddenly placed
at the doors and the hall was filled with luggage as every officer,
acting with characteristic official solidarity, vacated his room and
bestowed his presence elsewhere. Then the proprietor was informed
that his guests would return if he would agree to employ German