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And when, just at dusk, we clattered into the curious little
convent-church town of Nivelles, and found the tiny square before the
Black Eagle Inn full of refugees who had trudged in from towns beyond,
the liverymen, after taking off their varnished high hats to scratch
their preplexed heads, announced that Brussels was where they belonged
and to Brussels they would return that night, though their spent horses
dropped in the traces on the way.
We supped that night at the Black Eagle--slept there too--and it was at
supper we had as guests Raymond Putzeys, aged twelve, and Alfred, his
father. Except crumbs of chocolate and pieces of dry bread, neither of
them had eaten for two days.
The boy, who was a round-faced, handsome, dirty, polite little chap,
said not a word except "Merci!" He was too busy clearing his plate clean
as fast as we loaded it with ham and eggs and plum jam; and when he had
eaten enough for three and could hold no more he went to sleep, with his
tousled head among the dishes.


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