While I was in Brussels I stayed all the time at the same hotel, that of Madame Baily-Moremans, No. 26, Rue de Vieux MarchÉ au Grains, down near the Bourse. Her maiden name had been Moremans but over there when a woman is married her name often comes last instead of the man's. Here it would be Madame Moremans-Baily.

White sitting in the cafÉ one day, she introduced me to a wounded French soldier from Paris who was a prisoner of war. He had had one leg shot off but was about on his wooden leg and was staying at King Albert's palace, which had been converted into a Red Cross hospital. He was allowed by the Germans one free afternoon a week, to go down town for two hours, and I met him on one of these occasions. He told me many strange tales of frightfulness and gave me his card, asking me to come and visit him at the palace. You cannot go there except you have the name of someone whom you wish to see, and then you may visit only on Sunday afternoon between two and three o'clock. German sentinels are constantly on guard outside of the palace. When I went to see him he presented me with a photograph of himself, and having told him confidentially that I was going back to France, he gave me his mother's address in Paris. I afterward found her and told her about her son.

While I was talking with him I noticed that he was continually rubbing his arm, and I finally asked him what was the matter. He then told me of his own almost incredible experience. He said he was lying on the ground at the battle of the Marne, with his leg blown off by shrapnel; while helpless there in this condition a German sergeant came up and attempted to go through his pockets and rob him of some money which he had upon his person. He objected, naturally, and I suppose protested violently, as any human would. Whereupon the German drew his saber and gashed him across his right arm and then drew his pistol and shot him through his left shoulder.

As the man finished telling me he looked about to see if any women were near, and not seeing any, pulled off his coat, rolled his sleeve way up, and showed me one of the most ugly gashes that I have ever seen. His arm was half cut off, and I shall never forget to my dying day the look of revenge that was on his face. Nevertheless Jean was a good fellow and talked and laughed in spite of his mutilated condition.

The daughter of the landlady of the hotel had accompanied me to the palace, and as we were leaving the place we were both looking with bulging eyes about those great salons and taking in the marvelous chandeliers and gorgeous mosaics. Presently she said in a childish way, "I don't think—I—should like to be a queen—it's all too large and grand for me. I would rather live in my own humble little home, down town."

I have never forgotten that remark of the little Belgian girl. For as I reflected on it I thought of Belgium's queen, and where she now is—an outcast, an exile, having no country and no home, while the little girl did have one, such as it was. It was a home nevertheless.

The words of the poet came back to me,