His country house, stocked with things of beauty and value, accumulated during many years of travel, was occupied and pillaged when the German army, drunk with the temporary success of their first onslaught, were pursuing bandit methods through the country. Everything was taken: pictures and other almost priceless works of art, silver, glass-ware, even linen and clothing. What could not be removed was cut through with swords or otherwise destroyed, and the château, after sheltering troops for some time, left in a deplorable state of wreckage and filth. The park was damaged by horses, and many of the fine old trees cut down for firewood. Monsieur de R. bore the loss with that amazing stoic endurance manifested throughout by the Belgians. His only remark at the time was: “It is sad; but—_que voulez-vous_? We are at their mercy, and they have neither mercy nor conscience!” But that all Germans are not devoid of these qualities, he had, a few weeks later rather astounding proof. One day the card of a lady whom he did not know was presented to him at his Brussels residence, accompanied by a request to speak with him privately upon an urgent matter. As the name was German, he hesitated; but curiosity impelled him to receive the mysterious visitor. She proved to be a young and refined woman, very shy, and evidently greatly agitated. After returning his cold bow she came to the point at once: “I have come to tell you, Monsieur, that many of the things taken from your château were sent on to me in Germany.” “_Vraiment?_” he replied, with a scarcely perceptible smile of ironic wonderment. “Yes; they were sent to me by my fiancé, the officer who—obtained them from your house.” Her lips trembled as she sought for a less objectionable word than “stole” to express the deed. “I am having them all returned to you—every item. They have not even been unpacked.” “Ah!” The Belgian stared, unable to imagine the object of this astounding statement from one of a race he believed devoid of honour. But, without a word of encouragement, the noble girl related her story in a brave but unsteady voice, broken, toward the end, by tears that did much to soften his bitter feelings. The objects referred to, carefully packed in cases, had reached her after a letter from her fiancé relating how he had procured them. How he put it, she did not reveal; but her reply was a determined and high-spirited refusal to accept them. She had come to Brussels in order personally to see the victim of this robbery, and obtain his word of honour that he would never divulge her fiancé’s name in connection with the affair. My friend was so greatly impressed and touched by the admirable courage and fineness of her confession, that he readily gave the promise, and I believe no power could force him to break it! XI