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Updated: June 3, 2025


Some sank, too exhausted to continue. An English sailor, a tireless young giant, trudged on mile after mile with a Belgian soldier on his back. Both the Belgian's feet had been shot off and tightly bound handkerchiefs failed to check the crimson trail. London and Paris were gloomy, but Berlin was basking in the bright morning sunshine of the war.

Val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in the heavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment. "Any time you like to come on my yacht, I'll give her a small cruise." "Thanks," said Val, in arms again, "she hates the sea." "So do I," said Monsieur Profond. "Then why do you yacht?" The Belgian's eyes smiled. "Oh! I don' know.

I would kill you where you stand if I dared." With venomous hate she spat upon the floor, then seized her wailing children, shook them and waddled out of the room. There was a general sigh of relief. "You may return to the launch, Henderson," said the captain. "Monsieur Rondel," said Uncle John, grasping the young Belgian's hand, "we are grateful to you for your kindness.

The Belgian had put his arm round her, drawing her to him, away from the noise and shock of the shell. It was clear now that John was not coming back. He had forgotten them. The Belgian's hold slackened; he dozed, falling against her and recovering himself with a jerk and begging her pardon. She drew down his head on to her shoulder and let it rest there.

"Maeterlinck's man," says S.C. de Soissons in a penetrating study of the Belgian's dramatic methods, "is a being whose sensuous life is only a concrete symbol of his infinite transcendental side; and, further, is only a link in an endless change of innumerable existences, a link that remains in continual communication, in mutual union with all the other links.... In Maeterlinck's dramas the whole of nature vibrates with man, either warning him of coming catastrophes or taking on a mournful attitude after they have happened.

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