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the others were reaping their harvest of pictures. Why don't you take these too?" I asked. 'Oh," he replied, "I've been sending in so much of that stuff that I just got a telegram from my paper saying, 'Pension off that Belgian regiment which is doing stunts in the trenches.'"' The apparatus loaded in the car, we were off again.

Past a few barricades of paving-stones and wagons, past the burned houses which marked the place where the Germans had come within five miles of Ghent, we came upon some uniformed Belgians who looked quite as dismal and dispirited as the fog which hung above the fields. They were the famous Guarde Civique of Belgium. Our Union Jack flapping in the wind was very likely quite the most thrilling spectacle they had seen in a week, and they hailed it with a cheer and a cry of "Vive l'Angleterre!" The Guarde Civique has had a rather inglorious time of it. Wearisomely in their wearisome-looking uniform they stand for hours on their guns or march and countermarch in dreary patrolling, often doomed not even to scent the battle from afar off.

Whenever we were called to a halt for the examination of our passports, these men crowded around and begged for newspapers. We held up our stock, and they would clamor for the ones with pictures. The English text was unintelligible to most of them, but the pictures they could understand, and they bore them away to enjoy the sight of other soldiers fighting, even if they themselves were denied that excitement. Our question to them was always the same, "Where are the Germans?"

Out of the conflicting reports it was hard to tell whether the Germans were heading this way or not. That they were expected was shown by the sign-posts whose directions had just been obliterated by new paint -a rather futile operation, because the Germans had better maps and plans of the regions than the Belgians had themselves. The chauffeur's brother had been shot in his car by the Germans but a week before, and he didn't relish the idea of thus flaunting the enemy's flag along a road where some German scouting party might appear at any moment. The Union Jack had done good service in getting us easy passage so far, but the driver was not keen for going farther with it. It was proposed to turn the car around and back it down the road, as was done the previous day. Thus the car would be headed in the home direction, and at sight

of the Germans we could make a quick leap for safety. At this juncture, however, I produced a small Stars and Stripes, which the chauffeur hailed with delight, and we continued our journey now under that ægis of a neutral flag. It might have secured temporary safety, but only temporary; for if the Englishmen with only English passports had fallen into the hands of the Germans, like their other unfortunate kinsmen who have ventured too much around the war zone, they would have been escorted away to some German prison, there to await the end of the war. This cheerful prospect was in the mind of these men, for when we espied coming around a distant corner two gray-looking men on horseback, they turned white as the chauffeur cried, "Uhlans !" and it is a question whether the car or our hearts came to a dead standstill first. Our shock was unnecessary. They proved to be Belgians, and assured us that the road was clear all the way to Termonde; and, except for an occasional peasant tilling his fields, the countryside was quite deserted until at Grembergen we came upon an unending procession of refugees streaming down the road. They were all coming out of Termonde. monde, after being taken and retaken, bombarded and burned, was for the moment neutral territory. A Belgian commandant had allowed the refugees that morning to return and gather what they might from among the ruins.

Ter

In the early morning, then, they had gone into the city, and now at high noon they were pouring out, a great procession of the dispossessed, bringing with them their lares and penates mainly dogs, feather beds, and crayon portraits of their ancestors. Some came empty-handed; their houses and the contents had been burned to ashes. The few fortunates whose houses had been spared came with their carts piled mountain high with household goods, while a dog harnessed underneath tugged away with desperate earnestness, as though he felt the entire German army at his heels and wanted to escape. Little women came bearing burdens on their heads that would send an American athlete staggering to the ground, while the faithful knight walked by the woman's side bearing a bird-cage minus the bird, or some like burden fitting to his masculine dignity.

To give this the right tragic touch I am tempted to write that tears were streaming down their faces; but truth compels me to

After these pictures we were ready to cross the bridge; but the two sentries posted at this end were not ready to let us. They were very small men, but very determined, and . informed us that their instructions were to allow no one to pass over without a paper signed by the General. We produced scores of passes and passports decorated with stamps and seals and covered with myriad signatures. They looked these over and said that our passports were very nice and undoubtedly very numerous, but ungraciously insisted on that pass signed by the General. So back we flew to the General at Grembergen. I waited outside until they emerged from the office waving passes. They were in a gleeful, bantering mood. That evening they apprised me of the fact that all day I had been traveling as a rich American with my private photographers securing pictures for the Belgian Relief Fund.

Leaving our automobile in charge of the chauffeur, we made our way over. the bridge into the city of Termonde, or what was once Termonde, for it is difficult to dignify with the name of city a heap of battered buildings and crumbling brick-an ugly scar upon the landscape.

I was glad to enter the city with my companions instead of alone. It was not so much fear of stray bullets from a lurking enemy as the suggestion of the spirits of the slain lingering round these tombs. For Termonde is just like one vast tomb. As we first passed through its sepulchral silences we were greatly relieved that the three specter-like beings who sat huddled up over a distant ruin turned out not to be ghosts but natives hopelessly and pathetically surveying this wreck that was once called home.

A regiment of hungry dogs came prowling up the street, and, remembering the antics of the past week, they looked at us as if wondering what new species of crazy human being we were. To them the world must suddenly have gone quite mad, and if there had been an agitator among them he might well have asked his fellow-dogs why they had acknowledged a race of madmen as their masters. Indeed, one could almost detect a sense of surprise that we didn't use the photographic apparatus to commit some new outrage. They stayed with us for a while, but at the sight of our cinema man turning the crank like a machine gun they turned and ran wildly down the street.

Emptied bottles looted from some wine

Το

cellar were strung along the streets. some they had been more fatal than the Belgian bullets, for while some of the German soldiers had been setting the city blazing with petrol from the petrol flasks, others had set their insides on fire with liquors from the wine flasks, and, rolling down the street in drunken orgy, they had fallen headlong into the canal. Now German helmets still bring high prices as souvenirs. Three boys who had crawled across the bridge were fishing for these hapless victims. It was not from any sentimental reasons, but purely in the business capacity of local dealers in helmets and other German souvenirs. We got pictures there a picture of the Hôtel de Ville, the walls outside standing like a shell, the inside a smoking mass of débris; then a picture of a mitrailleuse car which swung into the square, bringing a lot of German bicycles, whose riders had just been shot down outside the city. The mitrailleuse also took a shot at an aeroplane buzzing away like a giant bee at a tremendous distance overhead, and was off again on another scouting trip.

I got separated from the party and was making my way alone when I was startled by a sharp" Hello!" ringing up the street. I turned to see, not one of the photographers, but a fully armed Belgian soldier waving his hand at me.

"Hello!" he shouted;

can ?"

66 are you an Ameri

the bushes over the brook." Then suddenly and with light gleaming in his eyes, as if overjoyed with such an inspired idea, he exclaimed, confidentially, "Come right down with me and you can take a pot-shot at them with my rifle." He said it like a man offering a rare treat to his best friend.

I wanted to exhibit proper zest about this little shooting affray and at the same time decline with thanks. So I said eagerly, "Now you are dead sure the Germans are down there?" implying that of course I couldn't waste any time unless the shooting was good.

The thought of that sixteen-to-one shot made my cheeks take on the color of the German uniforms. The naked truth was my last resort. It was the only thing that stood now between me and my friend, dragging me forcibly down to the brookside. So when Ridden asked, "What's the matter? You afraid?" I replied, "You betcha."

The happy arrival of the photographer at this juncture, however, redeemed my fallen reputation; for a soldier is always peculiarly amenable to the charms of a camera, and is even willing to quit fighting to get his picture taken. We posed for our pictures, and then sat down on a battered wall while Ridden poured his story into my listening ears. As a farewell token he presented me with an epaulet from an officer he had killed and a pin from a German woman spy he had captured. I waved a final adieu down the street, shouting out, "Be sure to come and see me in America when you get back!" The last I heard from Ridden was his sure, confident reply, "You betcha."

Striking farther into the heart of the ruins, we beheld in a section all burned and shattered to the ground a building which stood straight up like a cliff intact and undamaged amidst the general wreckage. As we stumbled over the débris, imagine our surprise when an old lady of about seventy thrust her head out of a basement window. She was the owner of the house, and while the city had been the fighting ground for the armies she had through it all bravely stuck to her home. "I was born here, I have always lived here, and I am going to die here," she said, with a look of pride upon her kindly face. Madame Callebaut-Ringoot was her During the bombardment of the

name.

town she had retired to the cellar; but when the Germans entered to burn the city she stood there at the door watching the flames rolling up from the warehouses and factories in the distance. Nearer and nearer came the billowing tide of fire. A fountain of sparks shooting up from a house a few hundred yards away marked the advance of the firing squad into her street, but she never wavered. Down the street came the spoilers, relentless, ruthless, and remorseless, sparing nothing. They came like priests of the nether world, anointing each house with oil from the petrol flasks and with a firebrand dedicating it to the flames. Every one, panic-stricken, fled before them. Every one but this old lady, who stood there bidding defiance to all the Kaiser's horses and all the Kaiser's men.

"I saw them smashing in the door of the house across the way," said Madame Callebaut," and when the flames burst forth they rushed over here, and I fell down on my knees before them, crying out, 'For the love of heaven, spare an old lady's home!'"'

It must have been a dramatic, soul-curdling sight, with the wail of the woman rising above the crashing walls and the roaring flames. And it must have been effective pleading to stop men in their wild rush lusting to destroy. But Madame Callebaut was endowed with powerful emotions. Carried away in her recital of the events, she fell down on her knees before me, wringing her hands and pleading so piteously that I felt for a moment as if I were a fiendish Teuton with a firebrand about to set the old lady's house afire. I can understand how the wildest men capitulated to such pleadings, and how they came down the steps to write, in big, clear words,

"NICHT AUFBRENNEN”
(Do not burn down)

Only they unwittingly wrote it upon her neighbor's walls, thus saving both houses.

How much a savior of other homes Madame Callebaut had been Termonde will never know. Certainly she made the firing squad first pause in that wild debauch of destruction. For frequently now an undamaged house stood with the words chalked on its front, 66 Only harmless old woman lives here; do not burn down." Underneath were the numbers and initials of the particular corps of the Kaiser's Imperial Army. Often the flames had committed lèse majesté by leaping over the forbidden house, and there

amidst the charred ruins stood a door or a wall bearing the mocking inscription "Nicht aufbrennen."

Another house, belonging to Madame Louise Bal, bore the words "Protected;" "Gute alte Leute hier" (good old people here). A great shell from a distant battery had totally disregarded this sign and had torn through the parlor, exploding in the back yard, ripping the clothes from the line, but touching neither of the inmates.

These houses stood up like lone survivors above the wreckage wrought by fire and shell, and by contrast served to emphasize the dismal havoc everywhere. "So this was

once a city," one muses to himself; "and these streets, now sounding with the footfalls of some returning sentry, did they once echo with the roar of traffic? And those demolished shops, were they once filled with the babble of the traders? Over in that building there, which looks so much like a church, did the faithful come to pray and to worship God? Can it be that children's laughter once rang through these courtyards, now in the thrall of death-like silence?" It is hard to realize that one is in the midst of war. One says to himself, Surely this is some But hardly a dream,

wild dream. Wake up." for here are the ruins of a real city, and fresh ruins too. Still curling up from the church is smoke from the burning rafters, and here are the hungry dogs, and there are the stragglers mournfully digging for something out of the ruins. However preposterous it seems, none the less it is a city that yesterday ran high with the tide of human life. And thousands of people, when they would recall the lights and shadows, the pains and raptures, which made up the thing we call life, thought of Termonde. Thousands of people, when they thought of home and all the tender associations that cluster round that word, said, "Termonde." And now where Termonde was there is a big black ragged spot-an ugly gaping wound in the landscape. There are a score of other wounds like that. There are thousands of them. There is one bleeding in every Belgian heart.

The sight of their desolated cities has cut the soldiers to the quick.

They have turned the names of those cities into battle cries. Shouting, "Remember Termonde and Louvain," these Belgians sprang from the trenches and like wild men flung themselves upon the foe.

T

THE Holy War which lately seemed to absorb considerable attention and discussion throughout the world is finally declared. I have a copy of "Tassvir-i-Efkar" before me, dated November 15, 1914, which contains the text of the fetva as officially given out. A fetva, as must be known to those familiar with Islamic jurisprudence, is a written decision on some point of law. It has two parts: the first is a question summarizing the problem; the second, an answer giving the decision on that problem in a very laconic manner. In connection with the present war five separate fetvas were issued. may be of interest to quote them :

It

a limited one. It is directed solely against those nations that are accused of suppressing Islam and Moslem. It is by no means a ratification for wholesale massacre of Christians. The nations that are friendly to Mohammedanism, on the other hand, must be supported, while others that have declared their neutrality must be left unmolested. It is, however, the duty of every Mohammedan to fight England, Russia, and their allies. Every Moslem must try to cripple these Powers, whether by means of arms or by subscription to the Caliph's treasury. While

not joining such a Jehad is a sin, it becomes unpardonable to assist in any manner whatever towards the success of the enemies of Islam.

The point of law being decided, it remains to be discussed whether the facts brought out in the question part of the fetvas are correct. Is it true that Mohammedans are persecuted under the rule of the above-mentioned Powers, as assumed in the fetva? Here the difficulty of the problem presents itself. On one hand, we will hear arguments to the effect that Mohammedans' in India, in Russia, and in Egypt are not persecuted, that they are at perfect liberty to exercise their religion, and that they actually do so. On the other hand, we are told that these people, though in theory they are allowed to exercise their religion with freedom, nevertheless cannot do so as long as they are subject to insults and ironies from petty officers who cannot be used with advantage at home and who are sent to colonies to be fed and dressed, and who usually do not possess the tact which their superiors wisely counsel them to practice. A matter of greater moment is the fact that England, Russia, and, not to be out of fashion, France, have of late taken resolute steps to undermine the Caliph's power and place him in a subordinate position and usurp the last vestige of independence from Islam. Indeed, Mohammedans of Turkey are not able to see any consoling feature in the conduct of Russia. and England in the Mohanimedan state of Persia; and they regard with justifiable suspicion the movements and dealings of the same nations in their own country. Those of the