The soldiers have remarkable ideas on the subject of the present campaign. Many honestly believe, and have probably been told so by their officers, that Belgium wantonly declared war on Germany. They say gleefully, “all the world is against us,” and tick off the various countries on their fingers. They simulate nothing but contempt for all concerned—except the French. Of them they have a wholesome awe. Perhaps they are right. A man’s punch must have an extra kick in it when backed by three decades of hate.... “Russia! The Cossacks look fierce, but they run away,” say the Uhlans. “England. A mere handful of men. What are a hundred and fifty thousand to us.” They jerk their thumbs over the shoulders as though casting England to the deuce. “The French, yes. Terrible men, the French. But we shall win.” I hope they will meet the English soon and get their ideas put right, as they surely will.... THE SIGN OF THE RED CROSS We no longer inhabit a cheerful Belgian village. In an unaccustomed country we must train ourselves to meet new laws. On Sunday we go to church. After service from the good Curé, M. le Directeur reads out to us a list of rules. We must not collect in crowds, nor speak more than three in the village street. We must not hide in the houses, but go about our ordinary avocations when the soldiers pass, or they will suspect a plot. We must never run away—unless we want a bullet in the back—but throw up our hands when called upon to do so. We must never do this and we must remember that, or we may expect to be bowled over as lightly as the wood blocks in that skittle alley which is the “distraction” of the Ardennois Sunday. A German officer has frankly told us that the very smallest reprisal for any inimical act will be house-burning. Should a civilian dare to fire on the German troops, well, that village may expect to be decimated of its remaining men. Besides this the Teutons do not trust our word. Twice to-day an officer has forced me to drink first from his glass of beer. The young Job-Lepouses have to do the same. A suspicious Uhlan intends to run no unnecessary risk. No peace for the wicked! There is the air peril to contend with. A sound often heard here, like a hundred threshing machines in full swing, made me think at first that the peasants were working in the fields. The mystery is solved when glancing far, far up where sky and cloud seem to meet, an aeroplane is seen buzzing slowly overhead. Sometimes we see it near enough to recognise its white body with the black tail-planes and tips to wings. German, of course, always German. We never have any other here. I watch the machine as it begins to descend at an acute angle. A thousand feet down, it hovers for a while. Finally, it planes earthwards like some great, ominous magpie until hidden from sight in the hollow of a distant field. “One for sorrow.” Another machine comes sailing majestically towards us from the nebulous distance. “Two for mirth.”