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Here in this
stricken town not a single villager comes near us. A priest passes us,
bows deeply to us, and in an instant is gone round a jog in the street,
the skirts of his black robe flicking behind him. From upper windows
faces peer out at us--faces of women and children mostly. In nearly
every one of these faces a sort of cow-like bewilderment expresses
itself--not grief, not even resentment, but merely a stupefied
wonderment at the astounding fact that their town, rather than some
other town, should be the town where the soldiers of other nations come
to fight out their feud. We have come to know well that look these last
few days. So far as we have seen there has been no mistreatment of
civilians by the soldiers; yet we note that the villagers stay inside
the shelter of their damaged homes as though they felt safer there. A
young officer bustles up, spick and span in his tan boots and tan
gloves, and, finding us to be Americans and correspondents, becomes
instantly effusive.


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