the wall, or to spread over arbors and trellises.  Beneath these, close by the roadside, we sat and drank red wine, and devoured omelets and vast slabs of rye bread.  At night we raced back to the city, through twelve miles of parks, to enamelled bathtubs, shaded electric light, and iced champagne; while before our table passed all the night life of a great city.  And for suffering these hardships of war our papers paid us large sums.

On such a night as this, the night of August 18, strange folk in wooden shoes and carrying bundles, and who looked like emigrants from Ellis Island, appeared in front of the restaurant.  Instantly they were swallowed up in a crowd and the dinner-parties, napkins in hand, flocked into the Place Rogier and increased the throng around them.

“The Germans!” those in the heart of the crowd called over their shoulders.  “The Germans are at Louvain!”

That afternoon I had conscientiously cabled my paper that there were no Germans anywhere near Louvain.  I had been west of Louvain, and the particular column of the French army to which I had attached myself certainly saw no Germans.

“They say,” whispered those nearest the fugitives, “the German shells are falling in Louvain.  Ten houses are on fire!” Ten houses!  How monstrous it sounded!  Ten houses of innocent country folk destroyed.  In those days such a catastrophe was unbelievable.  We smiled knowingly.

“Refugees always talk like that,” we said wisely.  “The Germans would not bombard an unfortified town.  And, besides, there are no Germans south of Liege.”

The morning following in my room I heard from the Place Rogier the warnings of many motor horns.  At great speed innumerable automobiles were approaching, all coming from the west through the Boulevard du Regent, and without slackening speed passing northeast toward Ghent, Bruges, and the coast.  The number increased and the warnings became insistent.  At eight o’clock they had sent out a sharp request for right of way; at nine in number they had trebled, and the note of the sirens was raucous, harsh, and peremptory.  At ten no longer were there disconnected warnings, but from the horns and sirens issued one long, continuous scream.  It was like the steady roar of a gale in the rigging, and it spoke in abject panic.  The voices of the cars racing past were like the voices of human beings driven with fear.  From the front of the hotel we watched them.  There were taxicabs, racing cars, limousines.  They were crowded with women and children of the rich, and of the nobility and gentry from the great chateaux far to the west.  Those who occupied them were white-faced with the dust of the road, with weariness and fear.  In cars magnificently upholstered, padded, and cushioned were piled trunks, hand-bags, dressing-cases.  The women had dressed at a moment’s warning, as though at a cry of fire.  Many had travelled throughout the night, and in their arms the children, snatched from the pillows, were sleeping.