The “spy” follows me in a moment later. “I congratulate myself, Mademoiselle,” he says. “I have never had the pleasure of being arrested by an Englishwoman before!” M. Jottrand is tramping his way back to Brussels. He has lost all his luggage but is quite cheerful. So far he has escaped with his life. That is something these days. Soon after he leaves us, German troops arrive in the village and knock at the doors of every house in Grand-Mesnil. “We give you one hour,” they say, “to remove those trees on the Bomale and Vielsalm roads.” A hurried conference takes place between the peasants. I interrogate one of them in the street next day. “How about those trees?” I ask. “Oh, we removed them all right,” he answers. “Not quite as the Prussians intended, however. Un pas de gattes (goat’s path). On a modest estimate it will take the German army about three years to pass along in single file!” THREATENED WITH DEATH “Sauvez-vous, sauvez-vous!” This warning yelled in strident, horrified tones is not the most cheerful awakener on a hot summer’s morning. I hastily throw on some clothes. With my hair scruntled up in a little bun I rush to the window. A German officer is standing before the house opposite, pointing a revolver at M. Job’s head. He issues orders in a harsh voice. As he turns away to address his men, M. Job leaps across the road like a hare, his little sun-dried face pale as death. “Save yourselves, my children. They are going to shoot us all down and set fire to the village. We have only a moment to escape. Sauvez-vous, sauvez-vous.” He dashes headlong into the house. A second later the entire Job family are scuttling in and out of the inn back door, in a concerted arrangement to convey some of their things to a safe hiding-place in the fields before it is too late. I rush back to my room, secrete my jewellery and a treasured letter or two under my dress, make a small packet of soap, toothbrush and other necessaries. Then I go to the front window and peer through. The officer is still in the same position, revolver in hand, addressing his men in rather angry tones. He has begun no violence as yet. They are outside the door of a poor old woman who is quite alone. She understands no German and must be dying of fear. I lean from the dining-room window and say with what firmness I can muster: “What are you doing?” “Go indoors,” says a soldier, motioning me imperiously back. “The peasants have fired on us, so we shall shoot most of you and burn the village,” says the officer, covering me with his revolver. “Our orders,” adds a soldier nonchalantly. “But we have no——” (I cannot for the life of me remember “weapon” in German, so I act the word in dumb show, one clenched hand to my shoulder, the other in a straight line but further away. I shut one eye and look along my fists to be more convincing.) “There is not one in the village,” I assure him. I wish my voice wouldn’t tremble so. It sounds cowardly.