This water, then, was a peace-offering, a plea for mercy.

As soon as the soldiers looked her way she put a smile on her
face, but it ill concealed her anxiety. She pointed invitingly to her
pails. At the sight of the water a thirsty soldier here and there
would break from the ranks, rush to the pails, take the proffered
cup, and hastily swallow down the cooling draught. Then returning
the cup to the woman, he would rush back again to his place in the
ranks. Perhaps a dozen men removed their helmets, and, extracting
a sponge from the inside, made signs to the woman to pour water
on it; then, replacing the sponge in the helmet, marched on refreshed
and rejoicing.

A mounted officer, spying this little oasis, drew rein and gave the
order to halt. The troopers, very wearied by the long forced march,
flung themselves down upon the grass while the officer's horse
thrust his nose deep into the pail and greedily sucked the water
up. More buckets were being continually brought out. Some of
them must surely have been confiscated from her neighbors who
had fled. The officer, dismounting, sought to hold converse with his
hostess, but even with many signs it proved a failure. They both
laughed heartily together, though her mirth I thought a bit forced.

I do not remember witnessing any finer episode in all the war than
that enacted in this region where the sky was red with flames from
the neighbors' houses, and the lintels red with blood from their
veins. A frail little soul with only spiritual weapons, she fought for
her hearth against a venging host in arms; facing these rough war-
stained men, she forced her trembling body to outward calm and
graciousness. Her nerve was not unappreciated. Not one soldier
returned his cup without a word of thanks and a look of admiration.

Nor did this pluck go unrewarded. Three months later, passing
again through this region as a prisoner, I glimpsed the little cottage
still standing in its plot by the flowing river. I want to visit it again
after the war. It will always be to me a shrine of the spirit's splendid
daring.

Chapter VII

A Duelist From Marburg

A squad of soldiers stretched out on a bank beckoned me to join
them; I did so and at once they begged for news. They were not of
an order of super-intelligence, and informed me that it was the
French they were to fight at Liege. Unaware that England had
entered the lists against Germany, "Belgium" was only a word to