The stories of the poor panic-stricken women of Louvain who emerged alive from the night of terror cannot fail to arouse horror. One woman upon whose face were marks of the intense suffering through which she had passed told how she tore down the curtains from her windows, wrapped them round some wearing apparel, and ran from the house with her two children. In the street she became involved in a stampede of men, women, and children rushing away from their burning town, whither she knew not. This miserable refugee’s story was so disjointed, so interspersed with hysterical sobs and exclamations, that it is impossible to make a full and coherent narrative of it. “Ah!” she exclaimed, with a convulsive shudder, “I will tell you of the burning of Louvain. We had pulled down some of the buildings so that the Germans should not mount guns on them when they came. I believe that was the reason. We were in a state of terror, because we had heard of the cruelties of the Germans. But all we had heard of them was not so bad as we experienced. In the streets people were cruelly butchered, and then on all sides flames began to rise. We were prepared for what we regarded as the worst, but never had we anticipated that they would burn us in our homes. People rushed about frantic to save their property. They were shot down by rifle volleys, struck down by sabres, and pierced by lances. My God! What have we not suffered?” Two young Oxford undergraduates who were present tell a graphic story, in a letter to the _Times_, of the sack of the town and the burning of the neighbouring village. Leaving Aix-la-Chapelle on the Wednesday in question, they set off for Louvain. As they passed through the little hamlet of Cortenbergh they encountered a body of German troops who had been dispatched to destroy the village. Taken prisoners, they were guarded while the inhuman soldiers of the Kaiser made use of the cartloads of straw which they had brought with them for their terrible purpose. Soon every house was a mass of flames.