Out of the conflicting reports it was hard to tell whether the Germans were heading this way or not.  That they were expected was shown by the sign-posts whose directions had just been obliterated by fresh paint—­a rather futile operation, because the Germans had better maps and plans of the region than the Belgians themselves, maps which showed every by-path, well and barn.  The chauffeur’s brother had been shot in his car by the Germans but a week before, and he didn’t relish the idea of thus flaunting the enemy’s flag along a road where some German scouting party might appear at any moment.  The Union Jack had done good service in getting us easy passage so far, but the driver was not keen for going further with it.

It was proposed to turn the car around and back it down the road, as had been done the previous day.  Thus the car would be headed in the home direction, and at sight of the dreaded uniform we could make a quick leap for safety.  At this juncture, however, I produced a small Stars and Stripes, which the chauffeur hailed with delight, and we continued our journey now under the aegis of a neutral flag.

It might have secured temporary safety, but only temporary; for if the Englishmen with only British passports had fallen into the hands of the Germans, like their unfortunate kinsmen who did venture too far into the war zone, they, too, would have had a chance to cool their ardor in some detention-camp of Germany.  This cheerful prospect was in the mind of these men, for, when we espied coming around a distant corner two gray-looking men on horseback, they turned white as the chauffeur cried, “Uhlans!”

It is a question whether the car or our hearts came to a dead standstill first.  Our shock was unnecessary.  They proved to be Belgians, and assured us that the road was clear all the way to Termonde; and, except for an occasional peasant tilling his fields, the country-side was quite deserted until at Grembergen we came upon an unending procession of refugees streaming down the road.  They were all coming out of Termonde.  Termonde, after being taken and retaken, bombarded and burned, was for the moment neutral territory.  A Belgian commandant had allowed the refugees that morning to return and gather what they might from among the ruins.

In the early morning, then, they had gone into the city, and now at high noon they were pouring out, a great procession of the dispossessed.  They came tracking their way to where—­God only knows.  All they knew was that in their hearts was set the fear of Uhlans, and in the sky the smoke and flames of their burning homesteads.  They came laden with their lares and penates,—­ mainly dogs, feather beds, and crayon portraits of their ancestors.

Women came carrying on their heads packs which looked like their entire household paraphernalia.  The men were more unassuming, and, as a rule, carried a package considerably lighter and comporting more with their superior masculine dignity.  I recall one little woman in particular.  She was bearing a burden heavy enough to send a strong American athlete staggering down to the ground, while at her side majestically marched her faithful knight, bearing a bird-cage, and there wasn’t any bird in it, either.