They were nearly all women and children.

They stood in their shallow doorways as our automobile went by bearing four Americans, two German officers and the orderly of one of the officers-- for we had picked up a couple of chance passengers in Huy--and a German chauffeur.

As we interpreted their looks, they had no hate for the Germans.

I take it the weight of their woe was so heavy on them that they had no room in their souls for anything else.
Just beyond Dinant, at Anseremme, a beautiful little village at the mouth of a tiny river, where artists used to come to paint pictures and sick folks to breathe the tonic balsam of the hills, we got rooms for the night in a smart, clean tavern.

Here was quartered a captain of cavalry, who found time--so brisk was he and so high-spirited--to welcome us to the best the place afforded, to help set the table for our belated supper, and to keep on terms of jovial yet punctilious amiability with the woman proprietor and her good-looking daughters; also, to require his troopers to pay the women, in salutes and spoken thanks, for every small office performed.
The husband of the older woman and the husband of one of the daughters were then serving the Belgian colors, assuming that they had not been killed or caught; but between them and this German captain a perfect understanding had been arrived at.