by the tide of German invasion, and, as food-supplies were running short, they determined to make a dash—­perhaps crawl would be a better word—­for Ostend, making the journey in two lumbering farm wagons.  On reaching Sotteghem, however, the Belgian drivers, hearing that the Germans were approaching, refused to go further and unceremoniously dumped their passengers in the town square.  When we arrived they had been there for a day and a night and had begun to think that it was to be their future home.  It was what might be termed a mixed assemblage, including several women of wealth and fashion who had been motoring on the Continent and had had their cars taken from them, two prim schoolteachers from Brooklyn, a mine-owner from West Virginia, a Pennsylvania Quaker, and a quartet of professional tango-dancers—­artists, they called themselves—­who had been doing a “turn” at a Brussels music-hall when the war suddenly ended their engagement.  Van Hee and I skirmished about and, after much argument, succeeded in hiring two farm-carts to transport the fugitives to Ghent.  For the thirty-mile journey the thrifty peasants modestly demanded four hundred francs—­and got it.  When I last saw my compatriots they were perched on top of their luggage piled high on two creaking carts, rumbling down the road to Ghent with their huge flag flying above them.  They were singing at the top of their voices, “We’ll Never Go There Any More.”

Half a mile or so out of Sotteghem our road debouched into the great highway which leads through Lille to Paris, and we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of the German army.  It was a sight never to be forgotten.  Far as the eye could see stretched solid columns of marching men, pressing westward, ever westward.  The army was advancing in three mighty columns along three parallel roads, the dense masses of moving men in their elusive grey-green uniforms looking for all the world like three monstrous serpents crawling across the country-side.

The American flags which fluttered from our wind-shield proved a passport in themselves, and as we approached the close-locked ranks parted to let us pass, and then closed in behind us.  For five solid hours, travelling always at express-train speed, we motored between walls of marching men.  In time the constant shuffle of boots and the rhythmic swing of grey-clad arms and shoulders grew maddening, and I became obsessed with the fear that I would send the car ploughing into the human hedge on either side.  It seemed that the interminable ranks would never end, and so far as we were concerned they never did end, for we never saw the head of that mighty column.  We passed regiment after regiment, brigade after brigade of infantry; then hussars, cuirassiers, Uhlans, field batteries, more infantry, more field-guns, ambulances with staring red crosses painted on their canvas tops, then gigantic siege-guns, their grim muzzles pointing skyward, each drawn by thirty straining horses; engineers,