cruelty.  The German generals were afraid of a nation of franc-tireurs, where every man or boy who could hold a gun shot at the sight of a pointed helmet.  Those high officers to whom war is a science without any human emotion or pity in its rules, were determined to stamp out this irregular fighting by blood and fire, and “frightfulness” became the order of the day.  I have heard English officers uphold these methods and use the same excuse for all those massacres which has been put forward by the enemy themselves.  “War is war...  One cannot make war with rosewater...  The franc-tireur has to be shot at sight.  A civil population using arms against an invading army must be taught a bloody lesson.  If ever we get into Germany we may have to face the same trouble, so it is no use shouting words of horror.”  War is war, and hell is hell.  Let us for the moment leave it at that, as I left it in the streets of Dunkirk, where the volunteer army of Belgium and their garrison troops had come in retreat after heroic resistance against overwhelming odds, in which their courage without science was no match for the greatest death machine in Europe, controlled by experts highly trained in the business of arms.

That night I went for a journey in a train of tragedy I was glad to get into the train.  Here, travelling through the clean air of a quiet night, I might forget for a little while the senseless cruelties of this war, and turn my eyes away from the suffering of individuals smashed by its monstrous injustice.

But the long train was packed tight with refugees.  There was only room for me in the corridor if I kept my elbows close, tightly wedged against the door.  Others tried to clamber in, implored piteously for a little space, when there was no space.  The train jerked forward on uneasy brakes, leaving a crowd behind.

Turning my head and half my body round, I could see into two of the lighted carriages behind me, as I stood in the corridor.  They were overfilled with various types of these Belgian people whom I had been watching all day—­the fugitives of a ravaged country.  For a little while in this French train they were out of the hurly-burly of their flight.  For the first time since the shells burst over Antwerp they had a little quietude and rest.

I glanced at their faces, as they sat back with their eyes closed.  There was a young Belgian priest there, with a fair, clean-shaven face.  He wore top boots splashed with mud, and only a silver cross at his breast showed his office.  He had fallen asleep with a smile about his lips.  But presently he awakened with a start, and suddenly there came into his eyes a look of indescribable horror...  He had remembered.

There was an old lady next to him.  The light from the carriage lamp glinted upon her silver hair, and gave a Rembrandt touch to a fair old Flemish face.  She was looking at the priest, and her lips moved as though in pity.  Once or twice she glanced at her dirty hands, at her draggled dress, and then sighed, before bending her head, and dozing into forgetfulness.