burgomaster has received some most sensational news from Brussels, but

it is too ridiculous to be believed.

Tonight is still and Nature is beautiful in the moonlight. Is it the

calm before the storm? Here in the chateau we are comfortable with

plenty to eat and faithful servants. In town one is not so lucky as a

cousin of Madame X. is quartering forty soldiers and ten officers at

table who are not--or rather, who are a little argumentative, and we

have heard of some instances where the "host" and "hostess" have had to

sleep in the garret or the cellar or wherever they could, while the best

rooms are appropriated by the _militaires_. Blankets, etc., are also

being requisitioned from many houses.

It is reported that General Leman narrowly escaped being captured

recently when he was lunching in the court of the Cafe ---- in town. His

companions-in-arms suddenly became aware of four men in strange uniform

who were approaching, and gave the alarm. General Leman succeeded in

getting over the wall of the garden while the others engaged the spies

in a hand-to-hand fight and overcame them.

_August 11th, Tuesday._

Invincible Liege! People are still firm in their faith, encouraged by

the peace of the morning. The day was quiet until 6.00 _P. M._, when

furious shooting into the valley began. We saw the great shells bursting

in the air and between the clouds of smoke we could distinguish an old

monastery on the other side of the valley which was being shot to pieces

by the enemy's field-cannon. The structure changed shape half a dozen

times before our eyes and the setting sun concentrated, as if purposely,

all its rays on the windows which made them blaze forth through all that

fury like the veritable Hand of God, writing in fire. It seemed almost

like a premonition.

Pressure from those tremendous guns could remodel mountains, and Nature

herself, sometimes, cannot hold out against the fiendish ingenuity of

man. And the city, itself! Can it hold out?

In the garden, very near the foot of the mountain, is the old farmhouse,

in one corner of which is a little chapel whose door stands open the

year round. It is of particular interest to the peasants, being the

last relic of a certain superstitious legend of the countryside. The

people come from miles around, crossing the fields by a little path

which they themselves have beaten down, to kneel before this tiny altar;

and on the last Sunday in May, the annual fete, the priests, leading a

religious procession which starts from the church, say Mass there. This

year, May 31st, 1914, the head gardener, who is the indisputable

authority on floral subjects in the village, borrowed everything from

the conservatory and gardens that he could lay his hands on in the way

of decoration. He arranged the semi-circle in front of the little chapel

very artistically with branches of leaves, palms and hundreds of pansies

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