Lettice and Dorothea arrived at the Bellevue in May. By the end of July their guests were scattering like autumn leaves, and on the day of the ultimatum Lettice took matters into her own hands, sent off the servants and shut the hotel. She did not in the least want to follow them—Lettice was not fond of running away; but for Dorothea's sake she was making up her mind to that sacrifice, when she discovered that Dorothea herself had other views. She go and hide? Rather not! She was going to stay and see the fun. (At that time it was still possible for the Dorotheas of this world to talk of seeing the fun.)

"I can nurse, you know," she said, sitting on the dresser in the big deserted kitchen, her hands in her tweed pockets, her brown legs swinging, her eyes sparkling with agreeable excitement. "I've got every old certificate and medal the Red Cross people give. It was the one thing I was let do as a kid—go to nursing lectures; uncle was always fancying himself ill, you see, and I had to look after him. Oh yes, I can nurse like billy-o! Go back to England and knit socks? Not for this child!"

But, but—but it's not safe," objected Lettice, pensively rubbing her nose.

"Safe? Nonsense! What do you suppose is going to happen to us? The Germans will never get within miles of this, and even suppose they did we're non-combatants—we should be all right. This isn't the Dark Ages. Besides, if we run away, who's to look after the hotel?"

Lettice said nothing.

"Suppose they quartered soldiers here? It's just the place they might. The poilu's a darling, and I love him madly, but what do you think Mr. Gardiner's furniture would be like after a week of him? There simply must be somebody to clear the rooms and see to things. You sent over specially to be in charge, and then want to go and run away! I'm surprised at you, Lettice. But whoever else shows pu-pusilianinimity" (there were some words Dorothea really could not get!), "I shall always be found ready to die at my post."

"But—" said Lettice. Dorothea jumped down in a whirlwind and shook her by the shoulders.

"Oh, pooh! I won't go home—I won't—I won't—so now! Do you understand that? And you know perfectly well you don't want to either. As if I couldn't see! You're saying this simply for my sake; and now you know I'm not going in any case you may as well give in without any more fuss. I'm tired of arguing with four buts and a grunt!"

"Well—" said Lettice, varying her formula with an eighth of an inch of smile, and allowing herself to pretend to be over-persuaded.

So they stayed.

In common with many other people, Dorothea was not happy in her predictions. On Friday, 21st August, a French army passed through Bouillon. On Saturday a battle was fought near Maissin, in which twelve thousand Germans were put out of action. On Sunday began the retreat of the French towards Sedan. And on Monday, 24th August, the French commander warned M. Hunin, burgomaster and proprietor of the HÔtel de la Poste, that it would be prudent to evacuate the town. All the bells in Bouillon rang the tocsin, and many people fled, abandoning their houses as they stood. A few hours later the Germans entered the city.

The abandoned houses were at once broken open and systematically plundered. Wine, beer, bedding were commandeered; pictures and valuables of all sorts were packed up and sent to Germany. More careful than their comrades at Louvain, the victors here secured and stole the famous library of the Trappist monks of Cordemois. Next morning a notice defining the duties of the inhabitants was posted up in the market-place, on the walls of the hotel where the last French Emperor had slept on the night before Sedan.

PROCLAMATION!

1. The town of Bouillon will pay a War Levy of 500,000 francs.

2. Belgian or French soldiers must be handed over as Prisoners of War before 4 P.M. Citizens failing to obey this order will be sentenced to Penal Servitude for Life in Germany. Every soldier found after that hour will be Shot.

3. Arms, powder, dynamite must be handed over before 4 P.M. Penalty, to be Shot.

4. Interdiction to be out in the streets During the Hours of Darkness. All houses must be completely Open and Lighted. Groups of more than Five persons are Strictly Forbidden.

5. Citizens must salute every German officer with respect. Failing this, the officer is entitled to extort it by Any Means in his Power.

6. If any Hostile Action is attempted the town will be Burnt Down and a Third of the Male Population will be Shot; without distinction of persons, the innocent will suffer with the guilty. The people of Bouillon must understand that there is no crime greater or more terrible than to endanger the existence of the town and its inhabitants by hostile action against the German army.

The under-mentioned have been taken as Hostages for the good behavior of the town.

The Commander of Division.

Followed a list of forty names, including both the priests. Fined, pillaged, terrorized, Bouillon yet thought itself lucky when the news came in from the country.

From Rochehaut no one had escaped; the warning did not come in time. Uhlans rode into the village on Monday afternoon and calmly took possession. Rochehaut was cringingly terrified, slavishly obedient. Not a dog could lift his tongue against the invaders without being zealously throttled; and when Madame Mercier's fat sow got in the way of the colonel, madame bundled out after her right under the horse's hoofs, to save, not her pig, but the dignity of a German officer. Alas! in spite of all, the colonel took a billet de parterre on the nearest dung-hill. He got up swearing, and for one awful moment Rochehaut trembled; but he went into the Petit Caporal to change, and Rochehaut breathed again, and went to pick up madame. That peril was averted.

For two days nothing happened, and the villagers crept out of their shuttered houses, and began timidly to go about their work of getting in the harvest. On the third morning, Thursday, 28th August, a poacher in the woods near the river let off his gun at a rabbit. He did not hit, and he was a Botassart man; but Rochehaut was the nearest village, and Rochehaut was held responsible. Moreover, that morning a patrol of Uhlans had gone out, to come back with ten empty saddles. French cavalry had laid an ambush for them in the woods near Vresse. Somebody must have given information to those French cavalry. It was necessary to make an example.

As a preliminary, a cordon was drawn round the village, and the people were collected in the square. Of the men, some thirty of the youngest were marked off for deportation to Germany, where they might be made use of for gathering in the harvest of the Fatherland; the remaining twenty found an end to their troubles in a trench under the churchyard wall. The women and children, who had been confined in the church during the fusillade, were let out to dig the general grave, and then suffered to go—not to their homes, however, for these were condemned. "They wandered in deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the rocks, being destitute, afflicted, tormented." Poor old Madame Mercier, whose leg had got broken in her struggles with the colonel's horse, had been overlooked in the general confusion and left behind in her cottage. She could not get downstairs, but she dragged herself to the window and shrieked for help to the soldiers who were setting fire to her kitchen. The colonel, riding down the street, was annoyed by her cries; he looked up, and recognized the frightened old face. "One of you stop that old woman's noise!" he shouted. After all, why not? It was her own fault; why had she not obeyed orders, and gone to the church with the rest? "Es ist unsere Pflicht," said the Uhlans.

It was Lettice's turn that afternoon to fetch the daily loaf from the Boulangerie Lapouse, opposite the church. Her path led over the hill past the crucifix, across the fields and through a corner of Gardiner's enchanted wood, which here ran down quite close to the village. She toiled along, as usual with her head in the clouds, but her dreams were broken and her steps stayed by a sudden burst of firing. She paused in the fringes of the wood.

All down the street men in gray were systematically spraying the houses with petrol; others were taking their choice of the furniture. The shops and cafÉs of the square were already in flames. The colonel sat his horse looking on. Suddenly a boy of fifteen bolted like a rabbit out of one of the blazing doorways and down the blazing street. He too had disobeyed orders. A laugh, a leveled rifle, and the poor little rabbit bounced into the air with a squeak like a mechanical doll, legs and arms jerking, and then went flat on the ground, its defeatured face in the midden. The flaxen poll became a crimson blob. Lettice saw that. Her first impulse was to rush forward and attack the murderers with her bare hands; the next sent her running blindly back through the woods by the way she had come. She was not frightened—it was far too vast a thing for personal fear; but she was sick with loathing, as at the sight of some monstrosity which ought never to have been allowed to see the sun.

The world never looked quite the same to Lettice after that day. Blind and deaf, her mind blasted bare of thought, she crossed the fields and scrambled down the orchard, and came round the corner of the house into the courtyard. There she was brought up with a cold hand at her heart. Several wagons were drawn up at the door; men in gray, that accursed field-gray which has been hated as no uniform before, were loading them under the direction of an officer. And Dorothea? Faint with foreboding, seeing crimson blobs in patches on the flags, Lettice groped towards the side door—and was met by Dorothea herself coming out, her face all pink and white with tears.

"Oh, Lettice, Lettice!" she said, "they're going to burn the house—they give us a quarter of an hour to turn out!"

Lettice put a hand on her arm, partly for support, partly to make sure of her reality; and by common consent they turned, as they stood in the doorway, to watch the lading of the carts. All went by clockwork. To one, the soldiers were bringing out the contents of Lettice's linen chest, her blankets, sheets, etc.; to another the furniture and plate. They packed like professional movers. There were tarpaulins ready to cover the carts when full.

"There's my chest of drawers," said Dorothea under her breath. "Oh, Lettice, oh, Lettice! what is that man doing with my best crÊpe de Chine nighties? Oh, look, he's packing them all up—he can't be going to wear them himself, he must be taking them for his best girl in Germany, and they're every single one embroidered with my name in full—oh, good gracious, how can he?" She broke into a hysterical giggle. "Oh, really, I do think Germans have funny sort of minds! Oh, look, look, there's your bureau out of the den—"

Lettice's bureau—it was Gardiner's bureau, the one he always used, the very one he had bought from Madame Hasquin in Lettice's presence; he loved it too much to let it out of his own room. The officer, staying his men with a word, began to look through the drawers, presumably for valuables. The file of Lettice's household bills he tossed aside; letters and other papers he skimmed, before rejecting them.

Lettice's hand fell from Dorothea's arm. She walked straight across the courtyard to his side. "What are you doing with that bureau?" she asked.

"Requisitioned for the army," was the curt reply.

"You mean, you want it yourself," said Lettice. "It's stealing; and you and your men are just thieves and murderers."

He turned, then, and looked at her, while Dorothea plucked at her sleeve, whispering frantic entreaties. But only a firing party could have silenced Lettice at that moment.

"No, madam, it is not stealing, it is war," said the German in an altered voice. "You are conquered; you have no longer any property or any rights but what we choose to allow you. You would do well to remember that. And let me advise you in future to be more careful of what you say. Not all my compatriots have an English education to look back upon."

Then Dorothea pulled her away, still reluctant; and it was Dorothea, in the nightmare minutes that followed, who sorted and packed in wild haste all she thought they could carry. There was not much left to take. She stuffed some clothes into a couple of pillow-cases, and dragged the silent Lettice out at the back, past some soldiers who with the same deadly method were smashing the windows in turn and spraying the interior. These men wore broad belts to which were attached a hatchet, a syringe, a small shovel, and a revolver. On the belts were the words, "Company of Incendiaries," also, "God with us." As Dorothea had said, Germans have funny sort of minds.

Crouching at the top of the orchard behind the house, the two girls watched the last of the Bellevue. First the petrol caught, an amethystine aura flickering insubstantial. Then the woodwork kindled, and yellow flames began to twine among that ghostly harebell blue. Orange pennons slid softly through the empty window frames; tiny golden curls started out along the eaves, small and even as a row of gas jets. The flames lengthened, they united, they rippled and flapped up the sky like a banner. They grew many-tinted, according to their fuel—gold, silver, ruby, emerald, amethyst, topaz, metallic blue. Lastly the roof fell in, and a great foursquare of fire puffed up to heaven, with streams of starry sparks, and clouds of glare, and floating flakes of gold. Dorothea was crying; but Lettice, her lips set grimly, watched to the end the destruction of Gardiner's hotel, the home he loved, which he had confided to her care.

Night came, but not darkness. Rochehaut was burning, Poupehan in the valley flared with half-a-dozen haystacks and a house or two, Corbion church was a beacon of tall flames on the hill, Alle's martyrdom showed as a pulsing glow of dusky rose in the overhanging cloud. On the far side of the valley, marching home with their booty down the road from Corbion to Bouillon, the soldiers of the Fatherland were singing, Deutschland Über Alles.