All Thursday afternoon the German Taubes circled above the city—­ mostly along the waterfront.  Below them puffed little clouds of smoke where shells from the Belgian anti-aircraft guns were exploding.  I fancy the airmen were locating the pontoon bridge and signaling to the Prussian battery commanders six miles away; but during Wednesday and Thursday, when the crowds of refugees were assembled on the waterfront, not a single bomb dropped among them.  A few shells, well placed, would have slaughtered them like sheep.  Before and during the bombardment I am quite certain that the Germans intended to frighten, rather than injure, non-combatants.  Report to the contrary notwithstanding, it is equally true that, so far as possible, the invaders kept to their promise to spare such buildings as the Cathedral, the Palais de Justice, the Hotel de Ville, the Castle Steen, and other historic landmarks.

The bombardment lasted forty hours.  That night,—­Thursday, October 8th,—­the second and last night which the town held out, all of the Americans who were left gathered at the Queen’s.  The firing by this time was terrific.  Except for the lurid glare of the burning buildings which lit up the streets, the city was in total darkness.  For weeks martial law had been in effect and there were no lights after sundown.  An unearthly feeling it was, to be locked in the darkness of this strange city, unable to speak a word of the language, not knowing whether the garrison had evacuated the forts or whether the city had been surrendered, believing there would be street righting or an insurrection of franc-tireurs.  At times we heard through the darkness the tramp of squads of soldiers.  Surely, we thought, there come the Germans.  We remembered the atrocities at Louvain.

About an hour after darkness settled on us I climbed to the roof of the Queen’s Hotel, from which, for a few minutes, I looked out upon the most horrible and at the same time the most gorgeous panorama that I ever hope to see.  The entire southern portion of the city appeared a desolate ruin; whole streets were ablaze, and great sheets of fire rose to the height of thirty or forty feet.

The night, like the preceding, was calm and quiet, without a breath of wind.  On all sides rose greedy tongues of flame which seemed to thirst for things beyond their reach.  Slowly and majestically the sparks floated skyward; and every now and then, following the explosion of a shell, a new burst of flame lighted up a section hitherto hidden in darkness.  The window panes of the houses still untouched flashed the reflection in our eyes.

Even more glorious was the scene to the north.  On the opposite side of the Scheldt the oil tanks, the first objects to be set on fire by bombs from the German Taubes, were blazing furiously and vomiting huge volumes of oil-laden smoke.  Looking over on this side of the river, too, I could see the crackling wooden houses of the village of St. Nicolas, lighting with their glow all of northern Antwerp and the water-front.  In the swampy meadows on the farther bank we could see the frightened refugees as they hurried along the still protected road to Ghent.  They passed on our side of the burning village, not five hundred yards away.  Every now and then as a fitful flame lighted the meadow I could see the figures silhouetted against the red background.