The Belgian soldier, in his tattered uniform, was leaning out, as
though to bridge the space that divided him from his ghostly
tormentors. The dazed look was gone from his expression and his eyes
were focussed in the fixity of a cruel purpose--to kill, and kill, and
kill the smoke-grey hordes of tyrants so long as his life should
last. He shrieked imprecations at them, calling upon God and snatching
epithets from the gutter in his furious endeavour to curse them. He
was dragged away by friends in khaki, overpowered, struggling,
smothered but still cursing.

I learnt afterwards that he, with his mother and two brothers, had
been the proprietors of one of the best hotels in Brussels. Both his
brothers had been called to arms and were dead. Anything might have
happened to his mother--he had not heard from her. He himself had
escaped in the general retreat and was going back to France as
interpreter with an English regiment. He had lost everything; it was
the sight of his ruined hotel, flung by chance on the screen, that had
provoked his demonstration. He was dead to every emotion except
revenge--to accomplish which he was returning.

The moving-pictures still went on; nobody had the heart to see more of
them. The house rose, fumbling for its coats and hats; the place was
soon empty.

Just as I was leaving a recruiting sergeant touched my elbow, "Going
to enlist, sonny?"

I shook my head. "Not to-night. Want to think it over."