f Germany's shameless outrage on a peaceful and peace-loving country.
On August 2nd, 1914, King Albert ruled over the most prosperous and
contented small kingdom in Europe. Within eleven weeks he had become, as
Emile Cammaerts finely puts it, "lord of a hundred fields and a few
spires."

Though Dalroy should live far beyond the alloted span of man's life, he
will never forget the strain, the misery, the sheer hopelessness of the
second month he spent in Belgium. The climax came when he found himself
literally overwhelmed by the host of refugees, wounded men, and
scattered military units which sought succour in, and, as the iron ring
of _Kultur_ drew close, transport from Ostend.

With the retreat of the Belgian army towards Dunkirk, and the return to
England of such portion of the ill-fated Naval Division as was not
interned in Holland, his military duties ceased. In his own and the
country's interests he ought to have made certain of a berth on the last
passenger steamer to leave Ostend for England. He, at least, could have
done so, though there were sixty thousand frenzied people crowding the
quays, and hundreds, if not thousands, of comparatively wealthy men
offering fabulous sums for the use of any type of vessel which would
take them and their families to safety.

But, at the eleventh hour, Dalroy heard that a British Red Cross
Hospital party, which had extricated itself from the clutch of the
mailed fist, was even then _en route_ from Bruges to Ostend by way of
Zeebrugge. Knowing they would be in dire need of help, he resolved to
stay, though his action was quixotic, since no mercy would be shown him
if he fell into the hands of the Germans. He took one precaution,
therefore. Some service rendered to a tradesman had enabled him to buy a
reliable and speedy motor bicycle, on which, as a last resource, he
might scurry to Dunkirk. His field service baggage was reposing in a
small hotel near the harbour. For all he can tell, it is reposing there
yet; he never saw it again after he leaped into the saddle of the Ariel,
and sped through the cobbled streets which led to the north road along
the coast. The hour was then about six o'clock on the evening of
October 13th.

A Belgian staff officer had assured him that the Germans could not
possibly occupy Ostend until late next day. The Belgian army, though
hopelessly outnumbered, had never been either disorganised nor
outmanoeuvred. The retreat to the Yser, if swift, was