nothing more compromising, however, than a piece of Vinolia soap. We had
not the least idea which way to go when we were released, and went wrong
first, and had to come back through that horrible camp again. Seven
times we were stopped and searched, and each time I pointed to my German
brassard and produced my Belgian Carte d'Identité. Sister did not speak
French or German, but she was very good and did not lose her head, or
give us away by speaking English to me. And at last--it seemed hours to
us--we got safely past the last sentry. Footsore and weary, but very
thankful, we trudged back to Brussels.

But that was not quite the end of our adventure, for just as we were
getting into Brussels an officer galloped after us, and dismounted as
soon as he got near us. He began asking in broken French the most
searching questions as to our movements. I could not keep it up and had
to tell him that we were English. He really nearly fell down with
surprise, and wanted to know, naturally enough, what we were doing
there. I told him the exact truth--how we had started out for Mâlines,
were unable to get there and so were returning to Brussels. "But," he
said at once, "you are not on the Mâlines road." He had us there, but I
explained that we had rested at a convent and that the nuns had shown us
a short cut, and that we had got on to the wrong road quite by mistake.
He asked a thousand questions, and wanted the whole history of our lives
from babyhood up. Eventually I satisfied him apparently, for he saluted,
and said in English as good as mine, "Truly the English are a wonderful
nation," mounted his horse and rode away.

I did not try any more excursions to Tirlemont after that, but heard
later on that my nurse was safe and in good hands.

* * * * *