armoured motor-cars.  The walls of such buildings as were left standing were loopholed for musketry.  Machine-guns and quick-firers were mounted everywhere.  At night the white beams of the searchlights swept this zone of desolation and turned it into day.  Now the pitiable thing about it was that all this enormous destruction proved to have been wrought for nothing, for the Germans, instead of throwing huge masses of infantry against the forts, as it was anticipated that they would do, and thus giving the entanglements and the mine-fields and the machine-guns a chance to get in their work, methodically pounded the forts to pieces with siege-guns stationed a dozen miles away.  In fact, when the Germans entered Antwerp not a strand of barbed wire had been cut, not a barricade defended, not a mine exploded.  This, mind you, was not due to any lack of bravery on the part of the Belgians—­Heaven knows, they did not lack for that!—­but to the fact that the Germans never gave them a chance to make use of these elaborate and ingenious devices.  It was like a man letting a child painstakingly construct an edifice of building-blocks and then, when it was completed, suddenly sweeping it aside with his hand.

As a result of these elaborate precautions, it was as difficult to go in or out of Antwerp as it is popularly supposed to be for a millionaire to enter the kingdom of Heaven.  Sentries were as thick as policemen in Piccadilly.  You could not proceed a quarter of a mile along any road, in any direction, without being halted by a harsh “Qui vive?” and having the business end of a rifle turned in your direction.  If your papers were not in order you were promptly turned back—­or arrested as a suspicious character and taken before an officer for examination—­though if you were sufficiently in the confidence of the military authorities to be given the password, you were usually permitted to pass without further question.  It was some time before I lost the thrill of novelty and excitement produced by this halt-who-goes-there-advance-friend-and-give-the-countersign business.  It was so exactly the sort of thing that, as a boy, I used to read about in books by George A. Henty that it seemed improbable and unreal.  When we were motoring at night and a peremptory challenge would come from out the darkness and the lamps of the car would pick out the cloaked figure of the sentry as the spotlight picks out the figure of an actor on the stage, and I would lean forward and whisper the magic mot d’ordre, I always had the feeling that I was taking part in a play-which was not so very far from the truth, for, though I did not appreciate it at the time, we were all actors, more or less important, in the greatest drama ever staged.