The Queen had wished to go to the trenches to see the wretchedness of conditions at the front, and to discover what she could do to ameliorate them.  One excursion she had been permitted at the time I saw her, to the great anxiety of those who knew of the trip.  She was quite fearless, and went into one of the trenches at the railroad embankment of Pervyse.  I saw that trench afterward.  It was proudly decorated with a sign that said:  Repose de la Reine.  And above the board was the plaster head of a saint, from one of the churches.  Both sign and head, needless to say, were carefully protected from German bullets.

Everywhere I went I found evidences of devotion to this girlish and tender-hearted Queen.  I was told of her farewell to the leading officials of the army and of the court, when, having remained to the last possible moment, King Albert insisted on her departure from Brussels.  I was told of her incognito excursions across the dangerous Channel to see her children in England.  I was told of her single-hearted devotion to the King; her belief in him; her confidence that he can do no wrong.

So, when a great and bearded individual, much given to bowing, presented himself at the door of my room in the hotel at Dunkirk, and extended to me a notification that the Queen of the Belgians would receive me the next day at the royal villa at La Panne, I was keenly expectant.

I went over my wardrobe.  It was exceedingly limited and more than a little worn.  Furs would cover some of the deficiencies, but there was a difficulty about shoe buttons.  Dunkirk apparently laces its shoes.  After a period of desperation, two top buttons were removed and sewed on lower down, where they would do the most good.  That and much brushing was all that was possible, my total war equipment comprising one small suitcase, two large notebooks and a fountain pen.

I had been invited to lunch at a town on my way to La Panne, but the luncheon was deferred.  When I passed through my would-be entertainer was eating bully beef out of a tin, with a cracker or two; and shells were falling inhospitably.  Suddenly I was not hungry.  I did not care for food.  I did not care to stop to talk about food.  It was a very small town, and there were bricks and glass and plaster in the streets.  There were almost no people, and those who were there were hastily preparing for flight.

It was a wonderful Sunday afternoon, brilliantly sunny.  A German aeroplane hung overhead and called the bull’s-eyes.  From the plain near they were firing at it, but the shells burst below.  One could see how far they fell short by the clouds of smoke that hung suspended beneath it, floating like shadowy balloons.

I felt that the aeroplane had its eyes on my car.  They drop darts—­do the aeroplanes—­two hundred and more at a time; small pencil-shaped arrows of steel, six inches long, extremely sharp and weighted at the point end.  I did not want to die by a dart.  I did not want to die by a shell.  As a matter of fact, I did not want to die at all.