o words for it, because there are no ideas for it. It is a
sorrow that transcends all sorrow that you have ever known. You have a
sort of idea that perhaps, if you can ever feel again, this sight will
be worse to remember than it is to see. You can't believe what you see;
you are stunned, stupefied, as if you yourself had been crushed and
numbed in the same catastrophe. Only now and then a face upturned (a
face that your guide hasn't pointed out to you) surging out of this
incredible welter of faces and forms, smites you with pity, and you feel
as if you had received a lacerating wound in sleep.

Little things strike you, though. Already you are forgetting the faces
of the two little girls and of the young husband and wife holding each
other's hands, and of the four little children who have lost their
father and mother, but you notice the little dog, the yellow-brown
mongrel terrier, that absurd little dog which belongs to all nations and
all countries. He has obtained possession of the warm centre of a pile
of straw and is curled up on it fast asleep. And the Flemish family who
brought him, who carried him in turn for miles rather than leave him to
the Germans, they cannot stretch themselves on the straw because of him.
They have propped themselves up as best they may all round him, and they
cannot sleep, they are too uncomfortable.

More thousands than there is room for in the straw are fed three times a
day in the inner hall, leading out of this dreadful dormitory. All round
the inner hall and on the upper story off the gallery are rooms for
washing and dressing the children and for bandaging sore feet and
attending to the wounded. For there are many wounded among the refugees.
This part of the Palais is also a hospital, with separate wards for men,
for women and children and for special cases.

Late in the evening M. P---- took the whole Corps to see the Palais des
Fetes, and I went again. By night I suppose it is even more "_triste_"
than it was by day. In the darkness the gardens have taken on some
malign mystery and have given it to the multitudes that move there, that
turn in the winding paths among ghostly flowers and bushes, that
approach and recede and approach in the darkness of the lawns. Blurred
by the darkness and diminished to the barest indications of humanity,
their forms are more piteous and forlorn than ever; their faces, thrown
up by the darkness, more awful in their blankness and their pallor. The