But hardly a dream, for here were the ruins of a real city, and fresh ruins, too.  Still curling up from the church was smoke from the burning rafters, and over there the hungry dogs, and the stragglers mournfully digging something out of the ruins.  However preposterous it seemed, none the less it was a city that yesterday ran high with the tide of human life.  And thousands of people, when they recall the lights and shadows, the pains and raptures, which make up the thing we call life, will think of Termonde.  Thousands of people, when they think of home and all the tender memories that cluster round that word, say “Termonde."’ And now where Termonde was there is a big black ragged spot—­an ugly gaping wound in the landscape.  There are a score of other wounds like that.

There are thousands of them.

There is one bleeding in every Belgian heart.

The sight of their desolated cities cut the soldiers to the quick.

They turned the names of those cities into battle cries.  Shouting “Remember Termonde and Louvain,” these Belgians sprang from the trenches and like wild men flung themselves upon the foe.

Chapter XI

Atrocities And The Socialist

“With these sentries holding us up at every cross-roads, there is no use trying to get to Antwerp,” said the free-lance.

“Yes, there is,” retorted the chauffeur.  “Watch me the next time.”  He beckoned to the first sentry barring the way, and, leaning over, whispered into the man’s ear a single word.  The sentry saluted, and, stepping to one side, motioned us on in a manner almost deferential.  We had hardly been compelled to stop.

After our tedious delays this was quite exhilarating.  How our chauffeur obtained the password we did not know, nor did we challenge the inclusion of 8 francs extra in his memorandum of expenses.  As indicated, he was a man of parts.  The magic word of the day, “France,” now opened every gate to us.

Behind the Antwerp fortifications the Belgian sappers and miners were on an organized rampage of destruction.  On a wide zone every house, windmill and church was either going up in flames or being hammered level to the ground.

We came along as the oil was applied to an old house and saw the flames go crackling up through the rafters.  The black smoke curled away across the wasted land and the fire glowed upon the stolid faces of the soldiers and the trembling woman who owned it.  To her it was a funeral pyre.  Her home endeared by lifetime memories was being offered up on the altar of Liberty and Independence.  Starting with the invaders on the western frontier, clear through to Antwerp by the sea, a wild black swathe had been burnt.

By such drastic methods space was cleared for the guns in the Belgian forts, and to the advancing besiegers no protection would be offered from the raking fire.  The heart of a steel-stock owner would have rejoiced to see the maze of wire entanglement that ran everywhere.  In one place a tomato-field had been wired; the green vines, laden with their rich red fruit, were intertwined with the steel vines bearing their vicious blood-drawing barbs whose intent was to make the red field redder still.  We had just passed a gang digging man-holes and spitting them with stakes, when an officer cried: