He is a very courteous gentleman, with the eyes of one who loves the sea, for the King of the Belgians is a sailor in his heart; a tragic and heroic figure but thinking himself neither—­thinking of himself not at all, indeed; only of his people, whose griefs are his to share but not to lighten; living day and night under the rumble of German artillery at Nieuport and Dixmude in that small corner of Belgium which remains to him.

He is a King who, without suspicion of guilt, has lost his country; who has seen since August of 1914 two-thirds of his army lost, his beautiful and ancient towns destroyed, his fertile lands thrown open to the sea.

I went on.  The guns were still at work.  At Nieuport, Dixmude, Furnes, Pervyse—­all along that flat, flooded region—­the work of destruction was going on.  Overhead, flying high, were two German aeroplanes—­the eyes of the war.

* * * * *

Not politically, but humanely, it was time to make to America an authoritative statement as to conditions in Belgium.

The principle of non-interference in European politics is one of national policy and not to be questioned.  But there can be no justification for the destruction of property and loss of innocent lives in Belgium.  Germany had plead to the neutral nations her necessity, and had plead eloquently.  On the other hand, the English and French authorities during the first year of the war had preserved a dignified silence, confident of the justice of their cause.

And official Belgium had made no complaint.  She had bowed to the judgment of her allies, knowing that a time would come, at the end of the war, to speak of her situation and to demand justifiable redress.

But a million homeless Belgians in England and Holland proclaimed and still proclaim their wretchedness broadcast.  The future may bring redress, but the present story of Belgium belongs to the world.  America, the greatest of the neutral countries, has a right to know now the suffering and misery of this patient, hard-working people.

This war may last a long time; the western armies are at a deadlock.  Since November of 1914 the line has varied only slightly here and there; has been pushed out or back only to straighten again.

Advances may be counted by feet.  From Nieuport to Ypres attacks are waged round solitary farms which, by reason of the floods, have become tiny islands protected by a few men, mitrailleuses, and entanglements of barbed wire.  Small attacking bodies capture such an outpost, wading breast-deep—­drowning when wounded—­in the stagnant water.  There are no glorious charges here, no contagion of courage; simply a dogged and desperate struggle—­a gain which the next day may see forfeited.  The only thing that goes on steadily is the devastating work of the heavy guns on each side.