“Supposing, just supposing we _did_ happen to run across any Germans, and they _did_ threaten to shoot us unless we delivered up the letters, which would you do?” “Deliver up the letters, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, puffing at his cigarette. I breathe a sigh of relief. After all, a whole skin is a more precious possession than much fine writing! Providence watches over us again. As we near the beautiful avenue of fir trees which connects the Bomale road with Manhay, a peasant scout rushes out to warn us that Uhlans are ahead. We have just time to escape into a little lane. More peasants come running up presently to tell us the road is clear. There is always the danger of being covered by field-glasses from some wooded hill, with its sequence of surprise attack, so we jog slowly along and drive into the yard instead of drawing up at the post office. Three minutes later a company of Hussars passes through without drawing rein. They are in high good humour, chattering, laughing, quite unsuspicious that the peasants they despise have been quick-witted enough to get the mails through under their very eyes! Willing men are posted at intervals round the street and even in the fields to prevent an attack. M. le Précepteur saunters over from the post office and sets to work sorting letters in the back kitchen. It is safer there.... The dining-room blinds are drawn down, and we all collect by the little French window leading into the yard. The papers are taken round, and unfolded. An enormous headline sweeps the page from end to end: LA GUERRE VA DE MIEUX EN MIEUX. Like most newspapers the contents are optimistic as regards their own side. Mlle Irma reads the news aloud. She begins with the heroic defence of Liège. As she reads, we hear the cannon booming, booming across the distant wooded hills. To judge from the printed page, the gallant little Belgians have defeated the entire German army to a man. Several regiments have already covered themselves with imperishable glory, notably the 11th and 14th Foot. Albert is in the 14th. A man named Desmoulins has rushed out of a fort and slain four Germans with his own hands before darting back safely to shelter. The enemy’s losses are enormous. I notice that in war they usually are. The Belgian casualties are described as so small that they are, seemingly, scarce worth mentioning. “The chief losses,” reads Mlle Irma in her clear, pretty voice, “were sustained by the 11th” ... a slight pause quickly slurred over, “and the 32nd.” “And the names!” “There are no names as yet,” she returns quietly and goes on with the notes of a speech, “ce cher monsieur Askveeth,” had delivered in the English parliament only yesterday. But Madame Job is not to be deceived. “It was the 14th which has been so cut up,” she says, putting up her apron to her eyes and beginning to cry again. “I know Albert is dead. Mon pauvre Albert in that terrible Liège!”