us to rise again. At a certain moment, when the Germans are obliged to retire, we succeed in escaping down side streets." Hilda was watching Hinchcliffe while the peasant and the priest were speaking. Curiously and sympathetically she watched him. A change had come over the man: something arrogant had left him. Even his voice had changed, as he leaned forward and asked, "What does he say?" The banker had pulled out a black leather note-book, and was taking down the translation as the priest gave it. Something kindly welled up inside Hilda toward him. Something spoke to her heart that it was the crust of him that had fallen away. She had misjudged him. In her swift way she had been unjust. Her countryman was not hard, only unseeing. Things hadn't been brought to his attention. She was humbly glad that she [182]had cared to show him where the right of things lay. Her fault was greater than his. He had only been blind. Distance had hidden the truth from him. But she had been severe with him to his face. She had committed the sin of pride, the sin of feeling a spiritual superiority. [182] "If you please, come to the other side of the room," said the priest, leading the way to the cot of a peasant, whose cheeks had the angry red spot of fever. He was Frans Meulebroeck, of Number 62 Drie Sleutelstraat, Alost. Sometimes in loud bursts of terror and suffering, and then falling back into a hopeless pain-laden monotone, he told his story. "They broke open the door of my home," he said; "they seized me, and knocked me down. In front of my door, the corpse of a German lay stretched out. The Germans said to me, 'You are going to pay for that to us.' A few moments later, they gave me a bayonet [183]cut in my leg. They sprinkled naphtha in my house, and set it afire. My son was struck down in the street, and I was marched in front of the German troops. I do not know even yet the fate of my son." [183] Gradually as the peasant talked, the time of his suffering came upon him. His eyes began to see it again in front of him. They became fixed and wild, the white of them visible. His voice was shrill and broken with sobs. There was a helpless unresisting agony in his tone and the look on his face. "My boy!" he said. "I haven't seen him." His body shook with sobbing. "Enough," said the priest. "Bonne chance, comrade; courage."
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