The next time I saw him was in a hospital back of the Somme, one of the hospitals where wounded soldiers stay only a few hours, unless they are too badly hurt to be moved on. He was one of those who could not be moved. He lay with closed eyes, asleep or exhausted--more likely exhausted--propped up a little with pillows behind his head and shoulders. His tunic hung beside his cot, and on it there was a new ribbon, the _Legion d'Honneur_. I stopped before him. "There is little chance for him," the doctor said. "What did he do?" I asked. "Led his company into the Park of Deniécourt, when all the officers were gone," replied the doctor. "They got a footing in the park and stuck there for two days, because he would not give up, until we made a new attack and got the park, the château and the village. He had been wounded the first day, but he would not give up. He has received the _Legion d'Honneur_ and been made a sous-lieutenant, but he will probably never know it." I saw him once more. This time was on the boulevards of Paris. His left sleeve was pinned across his breast and above it were his three medals, from left to right the _Croix de Guerre_, now with three palms; the _Medaille Militaire_ and the _Legion d'Honneur_. He was having a look at Paris, he told me, while he waited for the train to take him home to the centre of France, to his wife and boy. "I can tell them now that I was afraid," he said. (Told in the _New York Tribune_.) THE DESERTER--A BELGIAN INCIDENT _Told by Edward Eyre Hunt, formerly Antwerp Delegate of the American Commission for Relief in Belgium_ I--STORY OF AN AMERICAN AT THE BARONIAL CASTLE It was five o'clock in the morning. A riotous sunrise deluged the Campine as I slipped into my clothes and ran down the narrow, twisting tower-stair to keep a secret tryst with the _Baas_, or overseer. Little slits in the tower wall, cut for mediæval archers, let in the arrows of the sun; and as I ran through the gloomy armory and the high-roofed Flemish dining hall--stripped of their treasure of old pikes, swords, crossbars, and blunderbusses by the diligent Germans--out to the causeway, and over the creaking drawbridge on my way to the stables and the dismantled brewery, I imagined myself an escaped prisoner from the donjons of Château Drie Toren. In truth, I was running away from Baron van Steen's week-end house-party for a breath of rustic air while the others slept. The stables, tool sheds, hostlers' barracks, bake-oven, and brewery were thatch roofed and walled with brick, toned to a claret-red, pierced with small windows and heavy oaken doors. The doors were banded with the baronial colors--blue stripes, alternating with yellow, like the stripes on a barber pole--and in the centre of the hollow square of farm buildings fumed a mammoth brown manure pile. A smell of fresh cut hay and the warm smell of animals clung about the stables, and I heard the watch-dog rattle his chain and sniff at the door as I passed.