Gray was the skeleton of the ruined city in
the distance; gray were the shattered spires and walls of a dozen
hamlets on the horizon; gray, the eyes of the young man who walked
in faded blue uniform, in the remnant of Belgium. But there was an
indomitable light in his eyes, by which I knew that he was a King.
"Sir," I said, "I am sure that you are his Majesty, the King of
Belgium."
He bowed, and a pleasant smile relaxed his tired face.
"Pardon, monsieur," he answered, "but you make the usual mistake in
my title. If I were only 'the King of Belgium,' you see, I should
have but a poor kingdom now--only this narrow strip of earth, perhaps
four hundred square miles of debris, just a _'pou sto,'_ a
place to stand, enough to fight on, and if need be to die in."
His hand swept around the half-circle of dull landscape visible
southward from the top of the loftiest dune, the _Hooge Blikker._
It was a land of slow-winding streams and straight canals and flat
fields, with here and there a clump of woods or a slight rise of
ground, but for the most part level and monotonous, a checker-board
landscape--stretching away until the eyes rested on the low hills
beyond Ypres.
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