I went up to them and explained that there was no need at all to be afraid of me. They were able to give me news of the inhabitants of Villa Rustica. The owner had died a few days since, from a paralytic stroke, brought on by the emotions caused by the German horrors, whereas madame, who had heroically intervened on behalf of some victims, was probably at St. Hadelin College. My poor informants had not yet made up their mind where to go, fearing that they might not be permitted to enter The Netherlands as they were without means of subsistence. I assured them, however, that our conception of neighbourly love and charity was different, and that they would be hospitably received. I showed them the way to Eysden, and they had scarcely started when a cavalry patrol came racing on, the men tipsy and their seat rather unstable. Seeing the refugees, they aimed their rifles at them and roared "Hands up!" The poor creatures not only put up their hands, but fell on their knees, and muttered incoherent words. The women folded their hands, and stretched them out to the cavalry, as if praying for mercy. The soldiers looked at the scene for a moment, burst out in a harsh laughter, spurred on their horses, and raced on without a word. Two of them stopped near me. I gave them, however, no time for threats, but quickly showed them the old pass to Visé. As soon as they saw the German writing they said: "All right!" and went off. I came now to the eastern boundary of the town, whence the streets slope gently towards the bank of the Meuse. Here I had an atrociously fantastic view of the burning mass of houses. I fell in with a crowd of dead-drunk soldiers, who first handed my papers on from the one to the other, but as soon as they understood that I was a Netherlander they showed no hostility. They sang and shouted and waved their arms. Most of them carried bottles full of liquor, which they put to their mouths frequently, smashed them on the ground, or handed them to their comrades, when unable to drink any more themselves. Each of a troop of cavalry had a bottle of pickles, and enjoyed them immensely. Other soldiers kept on running into the burning houses, carrying out vases, pictures, plate, or small pieces of furniture. They smashed everything on the cobbles and then returned to wreck more things that would have been destroyed by the fire all the same. It was a revelry of drunken vandalism. They seemed mad, and even risked being burned alive at this work of destruction. Most of the officers were also tipsy; not one of them was saluted by the soldiers. The beastly scenes which I witnessed in the glaring, scorching heat benumbed me, and I looked on vacantly for a long time. At last I went back and called at St. Hadelin College, the Head of which I had visited already once or twice. The building was still undamaged.