The Germans are in Belgium, but not of it. Belgium is still
Belgium--not a part of the German Empire. Until the Germans are driven
out she is waiting.
As I write this, one corner of her territory remains to her, a
wedge-shaped piece, ten miles or so in width at the coast, narrowing
to nothing at a point less than thirty miles inland. And in that
tragic fragment there remains hardly an undestroyed town. Her revenues
are gone, being collected as an indemnity, for God knows what, by the
Germans. King Albert himself has been injured. The Queen of the
Belgians has pawned her jewels. The royal children are refugees in
England. Two-thirds of the army is gone. And, of even that tiny
remaining corner, much is covered by the salt floods of the sea.
The King of the Belgians is often heard of. We hear of him at the head
of his army, consulting his staff, reviewing his weary and decimated
troops. We know his calibre now, both as man and soldier. He stands
out as one of the truly heroic figures of the war.
But what of the Bavarian-born Queen of the Belgians? What of this
royal woman who has lost the land of her nativity through the same war
that has cost her the country of her adoption; who must see her
husband go each day to the battle line; who must herself live under
the shadow of hostile aeroplanes, within earshot of the enemy's guns?
What was she thinking of during those fateful hours when, all night
long, King Albert and his Ministers debated the course of Belgium--a
shameful immunity, or a war? What does she think now, when, before the
windows of her villa at La Panne, the ragged and weary remnant of the
brave Belgian Army lines up for review? What does she hope for and
pray for--this Queen without a country?
What she thinks we cannot know.
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