The Germans, pushing in, had burned certain outlying houses from which shots had come and burst open the rest.  Also they had repeated the trick of capturing sundry luckless natives and, in their rush through the town, driving these prisoners ahead of them as living bucklers to minimize the danger of being shot at from the windows.

One youth showed us a raw wound in his ear.  A piece of tile, splintered by an errant bullet, had pierced it, he said, as the Germans drove him before them.  Another man told us his father—­and the father must have been an old man, for the speaker himself was in his fifties—­had been shot through the thigh.  But had anybody been killed?  That was what we wanted to know.  Ah, but yes!  A dozen eager fingers pointed to the house immediately behind us.  There a man had been killed.

Coming back to try to save some of their belongings after the Germans had gone through, these others had found him at the head of the cellar steps in his blazing house.  His throat had been cut and his blood was on the floor, and he was dead.  They led us into the shell of the place, the stone walls being still staunchly erect; but the roof was gone, and in the cinders and dust on the planks of an inner room they showed us a big dull-brown smear.

This, they told us, pointing, was the place where he lay.  One man in pantomime acted out the drama of the discovery of the body.  He was a born actor, that Belgian villager, and an orator—­with his hands.  Somehow, watching him, I visualized the victim as a little man, old and stoop-shouldered and feeble in his movements.

I looked about the room.  The corner toward the road was a black ruin, but the back wall was hardly touched by the marks of the fire.

On a mantel small bits of pottery stood intact, and a holy picture on the wall—­a cheap print of a saint—­was not even singed.  At the foot of the cellar steps curdled milk stood in pans; and beside the milk, on a table, was a half-moon of cheese and a long knife.

We wanted to know why the man who lived here had been killed.  They professed ignorance then—­none of them knew, or, at least, none of them would say.  A little later a woman told us she had heard the Germans caught him watching from a window with a pair of opera glasses, and on this evidence took him for a spy.  But we could secure no direct evidence either to confirm the tale or to disprove it.

We got to the center of the town, leaving the venerable nag behind to be baited at a big gray barn by a big, shapeless, kindly woman hostler whose wooden shoes clattered on the round cobbles of her stable yard like drum taps.

In the Square, after many citizens had informed us there was nothing to eat, a little Frenchwoman took pity on our emptiness, and, leading us to a parlor behind a shop where she sold, among other things, post cards, cheeses and underwear, she made us a huge omelet and gave us also good butter and fresh milk and a pot of her homemade marmalade.  Her two little daughters, who looked as though they had escaped from a Frans Hals canvas, waited on us while we wolfed the food down.