voice. He shouted frightful words in French and one sentence which I remember now.
"A week ago you sat there with a German officer!"
The Belgian officers were listening, gravely. One of them half-rose from his chair with a flushed, wolfish face. I was staring at the girl. She was white to the lips and held on to a brass rail as though about to faint. Then, controlling herself, instantly, she fumbled at the peg, pulled down her furs and fled through the swing-door. . . . She was another Marthe.
Somebody laughed in the restaurant, but only one voice. For a moment there was silence, then conversation was resumed, as though no figure of tragedy had passed. The waiter who had denounced the woman swept some crumbs off a table and went to fetch some soup.
Brand did not touch his food.
"I feel sick," he said.
He pushed his plate away and paid the bill.
"Let's go."
He forgot to ask whether I wanted to eat—he was absent-minded in that way—but I felt like him, and avoiding the Grande Place we walked by hazard to a part of the city where some fires were burning. The sky was reddened and we smelt smoke, and presently felt the heat of flames.
"What new devilry?" asked Brand. "Can't these people enjoy Peace? Hasn't there been enough violence?"
"Possibly a bonfire," I said, "symbolical of joy and warmth after cold years!"
Coming closer, I saw that Brand was right. Black figures like dancing devils were in the ruddy glare of a savage fire up a side street of Ghent. In other streets were other fires. Close to where we stood was an old inn called the Hôtel de la Demie-Lune—the Hotel of the
