Suddenly two of them began dancing.
In their big rawhide boots, with hobbed soles and steel-shod heels, they pounded back and forth, while the others whooped them on.

One of the dancers gave out presently; but the other seemed still unimpaired in wind and limb.

He darted into an adjoining room and came back in a minute dragging a half-frightened, half-pleased little Belgian scullery maid and whirled her about to waltz music until she dropped for want of breath to carry her another turn; after which he did a solo--Teutonic version--of a darky breakdown, stopping only to join in the next song.
It was eleven o'clock and they were still singing when we left them and went groping through dark hallways to where our simple hay mattress awaited us.

I might add that we were indebted to a corporal of lancers for the hay, which he pilfered from the feed racks outside after somebody had stolen the two bundles of straw one of us had previously purchased.

Except for his charity of heart we should have lain on the cold flagging.
The next morning was Thursday morning, and by Thursday night, at the very latest, we counted on being back in Brussels; but we were not destined to see Brussels again for nearly six weeks.