“Every German who comes in here says that the Belgians have cut off the ears and gouged out the eyes of their wounded before Liège,” I say. “We on our side are horrified at the tale of German atrocities. Each time a German enters this village we feel that the tragedy of Visé may be enacted over again.” The Tax-collector shrugs his shoulders as he fingers a cigarette. “You must remember it is against the rules of warfare for non-combatants to fire,” he murmurs. “Have they?” He flicks an infinitesimal spot of dust from the table-cloth, and does not answer me. Yet if one’s country be invaded who shall say that one may not avail oneself of any means to oust the hated foe? The nostalgia of war seizes me. I know a country where such things could not be. Shall I ever see England, dear England again? Involuntarily I breathe the words aloud. The Tax-collector leans across to me and speaks firmly but very gently as one would address a tired child, “You will never see England again, never, Mademoiselle. Make up your mind to that.” I scrape my chair back along the wooden boards and rise in a flurry because “it is so hot, so hot”—and escape to my room to dream of what might have been but never can be now—— SPIES AHOY Chasse-aux-espions! A governmental order has come through that we are to arrest any suspicious-looking person who passes through the village. We suspect ourselves. We suspect everybody. We are only deterred from action by one thought. The horror of shooting in cold blood a poor, blindfolded, unarmed human thing. The village is thrilled with excitement this morning. A tourist in tweed suit and knicker-bockers has arrived. He hangs up his soft felt hat in the hall and follows up his breakfast order with comments on the war. He has come from Vielsalm. He has spoken with the Germans. The peasants cluster round him. “Nice kind fellows the Germans seem,” he says casually, as he walks into the dining-room and takes his seat. That is sufficient. The men nudge each other and direct mysterious glances towards the door. I am invited to arrest him! I murmur that M. le Directeur and the Bourgmestre have the prior right but that I shall be delighted to assist. On one condition. If found guilty the miscreant must be despatched round the corner and not before my eyes. The Bourgmestre when sent for will not come; I fetch M. le Directeur. “All unconscious of his fate” the spy is enjoying an excellent meal of bacon and eggs. He starts up as we enter and turns rather white. When challenged he opens his pocket-book and shows us his papers with admirable composure. Dreadful error! On his card I read, “Monsieur Jottrand, Premier Avocat-Général à la Court d’Appel, Bruxelles.” There is a burst of merriment from the peasants. They surge round him. M. le Directeur shakes him warmly by the hand. I rush to hide myself behind the big black stove in the kitchen.