There were German soldiers where she pointed--both living ones and dead ones.
The dead ones, eighty-odd of them, were buried in two big crosswise trenches, in a circular plot that had once been a bed of ornamental flowers surrounding the monument of some local notable.

The living ones were standing sentry duty at the fence that flanked the railroad tracks beyond.
"They did," she said; "they killed him! Will you buy some postal cards, m'sieur?
All the best pictures of the ruins!" She said it flatly, without color in her voice, or feeling or emotion.
She did not, I am sure, flinch mentally as she looked at the Germans.
Certainly she did not flinch visibly.

She was past flinching, I suppose.
The officer in command of the force holding the town came, just before we started, to warn us to beware of bicyclists who might be encountered near Tirlemont.
"They are all franc-tireurs--those Belgians on wheels," he said.

"Some of them are straggling soldiers, wearing uniforms under their other clothes.

They will shoot at you and trust to their bicycles to get away.