In the immediate vicinity of Antwerp the sentries were soldiers of the regular army and understood a sentry’s duties, but in the outlying districts, particularly between Ostend and Ghent, the roads were patrolled by members of the Garde civique, all of whom seemed imbued with the idea that the safety of the nation depended upon their vigilance, which was a very commendable and proper attitude indeed.  When I was challenged by a Garde civique I was always a little nervous, and wasted no time whatever in jamming on the brakes, because the poor fellows were nearly always excited and handled their rifles in a fashion which was far from being reassuring.  More than once, while travelling in the outlying districts, we were challenged by civil guards who evidently had not been entrusted with the password, but who, when it was whispered to them, would nod their heads importantly and tell us to pass on.

“The next sentry that we meet,” I said to Roos on one of these occasions, “probably has no idea of the password.  I’ll bet you a box of cigars that I can give him any word that comes into my head and that he won’t know the difference.”

As we rolled over the ancient drawbridge which gives admittance to sleepy Bruges, a bespectacled sentry, who looked as though he had suddenly been called from an accountant’s desk to perform the duties of a soldier, held up his hand, palm outward, which is the signal to stop the world over.

“Halt!” he commanded quaveringly.  “Advance slowly and give the word.”

I leaned out as the car came opposite him.  “Kalamazoo,” I whispered.  The next instant I was looking into the muzzle of his rifle.

“Hands up!” he shouted, and there was no longer any quaver in his voice.  “That is not the word.  I shouldn’t be surprised if you were German spies.  Get out of the car!”

It took half an hour of explanations to convince him that we were not German spies, that we really did know the password, and that we were merely having a joke—­though not, as we had planned, at his expense.

The force of citizen soldiery known as the Garde civique has, so far as I am aware, no exact counterpart in any other country.  It is composed of business and professional men whose chief duties, prior to the war, had been to show themselves on occasions of ceremony arrayed in gorgeous uniforms, which varied according to the province.  The mounted division of the Antwerp Garde civique wore a green and scarlet uniform which resembled as closely as possible that of the Guides, the crack cavalry corps of the Belgian army.  In the Flemish towns the civil guards wore a blue coat, so long in the skirts that it had to be buttoned back to permit of their walking, and a hat of stiff black felt, resembling a bowler, with a feather stuck rakishly in the band.  Early in the war the Germans announced that they would not recognize the Gardes civique as combatants, and that any of them who were captured while fighting would