So within a day our small party, still seeking to slip into the wings of the actual theater of events rather than to stay so far back behind the scenes, was aboard a Channel ferryboat bound for Ostend, and having for fellow travelers a few Englishmen, a tall blond princess of some royal house of Northern Europe, and any number of Belgians going home to enlist.  In the Straits of Dover, an hour or so out from Folkestone, we ran through a fleet of British warships guarding the narrow roadstead between France and England; and a torpedo-boat destroyer sidled up and took a look at us.

Just off Dunkirk a French scout ship talked with us by the language of the whipping signal flags; but the ordinary Channel craft came and went without hindrance or seeming fear, and again it was hard for us to make ourselves believe that we had reached a zone where the physical, tangible business of war went forward.

And Ostend and, after Ostend, the Belgian interior—­those were disappointments too; for at Ostend bathers disported on the long, shining beach and children played about the sanded stretch.  And, though there were soldiers in sight, one always expects soldiers in European countries.  No one asked to see the passports we had brought with us, and the customs officers gave our hand baggage the most perfunctory of examinations.  Hardly five minutes had elapsed after our landing before we were steaming away on our train through a landscape which, to judge by its appearance, might have known only peace, and naught but peace, for a thousand placid years.

It is true we saw during that ride few able-bodied male adults, either in the towns through which we rushed or in the country.  There were priests occasionally and old, infirm men or half-grown boys; but of men in their prime the land had been drained to fill up the army of defense then on the other side of Belgium—­toward Germany—­striving to hold the invaders in check until the French and English might come up.  The yellow-ripe grain stood in the fields, heavy-headed and drooping with seed.  The russet pears and red apples bent the limbs of the fruit trees almost to earth.  Every visible inch of soil was under cultivation, of the painfully intensive European sort; and there remained behind to garner the crops only the peasant women and a few crippled, aged grand-sires.  It was hard for us to convince ourselves that any event out of the ordinary beset this country.  No columns of troops passed along the roads; no camps of tents lifted their peaked tops above the hedges.  In seventy-odd miles we encountered one small detachment of soldiers—­they were at a railroad station—­and one Red Cross flag.

As for Brussels—­why, Brussels at first glance was more like a city making a fete than the capital of a nation making war.  The flags which were displayed everywhere; the crowds in the square before the railroad station; the multitudes of boy scouts running about; the uniforms of Belgian volunteers and regulars; the Garde Civique, in their queer-looking costumes, with funny little derby hats, all braid-trimmed—­gave to the place a holiday air.  After nightfall, when the people of Brussels flocked to the sidewalk cafes and sat at little round tables under awnings, drinking light drinks a la Parisienne, this impression was heightened.