CHAPTER V St. Gudula
Several weeks later Barbara Meade walked down the steps of a house in Brussels out into one of the streets near the Palais de la Nation. The house had once been a private residence, but since the coming of war into the heart of Belgium had been turned into a relief hospital by the American Red Cross Society.
Barbara walked slowly, looking at all the objects of interest along the way. She wore a dark-blue taffeta suit and white blouse and a small blue hat with a single white wing in it.
Evidently she was not in a hurry. Indeed, she behaved more like an ordinary tourist than an overworked nurse. Yet a glance into Barbara's face would have suggested that she was dreadfully fagged and anxious to get away from the beaten track for a few hours. It chanced to be her one afternoon of leisure in the week, so for the time she had discarded her nurse's uniform. She was also trying to forget the trouble surrounding her and to appreciate the beauty and charm of Brussels.
Yet Barbara found it difficult to get into a mood of real enjoyment. These past few weeks represented the hardest work she had yet done, for the funds for the Belgian Relief work were getting painfully low. Therefore, as there were still so many demands, the workers could only try to do double duty.
Finally Barbara entered the church of St. Gudula, which happened to be near at hand. It was a beautiful Gothic building, dedicated to the patron saint of Brussels. Once inside, the girl strolled quietly about, feeling herself already rested and calmed from the simple beauty of the interior. The tall rounded pillars and sixteenth century stained glass represented a new world of color and beauty. Although she was not a Catholic, Barbara could not refrain from saying a short prayer in the "Chapel of Notre-Dame-de-Deliverance" for the safety of the Belgian people and their gallant king and queen. Barbara was too loyal an American to believe that kings and queens were any longer useful as the heads of governments. Nevertheless, as a noble man and woman, King Albert and Queen Elizabeth of Belgium, commanded her admiration and sympathy. Since the outbreak of the war neither of them seem to have given thought to their royalty, remembering only their common humanity with the people of their land.
Already comforted by the few minutes of quiet, finally Barbara slipped out of one of the side doors that chanced to be open. Afterwards she stood looking about her in order to find out just where she was.
The side street was almost entirely free from passers by. Therefore, as Barbara desired to inquire her way to the nearest tram line, she waited for a moment. At some distance down the street she could see the figure of a man walking in her direction.
She did not look very closely or she might have discovered something familiar in the quick stride and the graceful carriage of the head and shoulders. The men of Brussels are rather more French than Flemish in their appearance, yet this man did not resemble a foreigner.
Indeed, he walked so much more rapidly than Barbara expected that she was extremely startled when a voice said close beside her: