It stands in the heathland that slopes and rolls from the wooded
hills of Gelderland to the southern shore of the Zuider Zee--a sandy
country overgrown with scrub-oaks and pines and heather--yet very
healthy and well drained, and not unfertile under cultivation. You
may see that in the little neighbor-village, where the trees arch
over the streets, and the kitchen-gardens prosper, and the shrubs
and flowers bloom abundantly.

The small houses and hotels of this tiny summer resort are of brick.
It has an old, well-established look; a place of relaxation with
restraint, not of ungirdled frivolity. The plain Dutch people love
their holidays, but they take them serenely and by rule: long walks
and bicycle-rides, placid and nourishing picnics in the woods or
by the sea, afternoon tea-parties in sheltered arbors. One of their
favorite names for a country-place is _Wel Teweden,_ "perfectly
contented."

The commandant of the City of Refuge lives in one of the little
brick houses of the village. He is a portly, rosy old bachelor,
with a curly brown beard and a military bearing; a man of fine
education and wide experience, seasoned in colonial diplomacy.
The ruling idea in his mind is discipline, authority. His official
speech is abrupt and final, the manner of a martinet covering a
heart full of kindness and generous impulses.

"Come," he says, after a good breakfast, "I want you to see my
camp. It is not as fine and fancy as the later ones. But we built
it in a hurry and we had it ready on time."