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once more to the gruesome tale of the massacre
of the eight hundred civilians at Dinant. He
knew the terrible story through the
depositions of the few survivors; he heard it now
from the trembling lips of one of the
executioners.
It was all carried out with order and
precision; the officers were there to see that the
work was properly done, and that it all went
off without a hitch—the men were rather
more drunk than was good for them. One
of his comrades was shot dead by an officer
as he threw down his rifle when orders were
given to fire on the defenceless crowd.
They slaughtered the men first, several
hundreds of them, mostly old men, but many
mere boys. Then the women by hundreds,
mothers and wives, daughters and sisters,
young and old. How many he had shot he
did not know, he did not remember, nor did
he seem to worry much about it. It was all
about the old woman. He saw her running
down the street, but she could not run very
fast, she was a very old woman—“Eine
sehr alte Frau,” said he. He stabbed her
as she was entering a house; she fell on the
threshold. As he bent over her face to see
if she was dead, she opened her eyes and
looked at him with the same eyes as his
grandmother had looked at him the day he
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