But more appealing were the peasants.  We walked out along the inner boulevards to meet them, and found the side streets blocked with their carts.  Into these they had thrown mattresses, or bundles of grain, and heaped upon them were families of three generations.  Old men in blue smocks, white-haired and bent, old women in caps, the daughters dressed in their one best frock and hat, and clasping in their hands all that was left to them, all that they could stuff into a pillow-case or flour-sack.  The tears rolled down their brown, tanned faces.  To the people of Brussels who crowded around them they spoke in hushed, broken phrases.  The terror of what they had escaped or of what they had seen was upon them.  They had harnessed the plough-horse to the dray or market-wagon and to the invaders had left everything.  What, they asked, would befall the live stock they had abandoned, the ducks on the pond, the cattle in the field?  Who would feed them and give them water?  At the question the tears would break out afresh.  Heart-broken, weary, hungry, they passed in an unending caravan.  With them, all fleeing from the same foe, all moving in one direction, were family carriages, the servants on the box in disordered livery, as they had served dinner, or coatless, but still in the striped waistcoats and silver buttons of grooms or footmen, and bicyclers with bundles strapped to their shoulders, and men and women stumbling on foot, carrying their children.  Above it all rose the breathless scream of the racing-cars, as they rocked and skidded, with brakes grinding and mufflers open; with their own terror creating and spreading terror.

Though eager in sympathy, the people of Brussels themselves were undisturbed.  Many still sat at the little iron tables and smiled pityingly upon the strange figures of the peasants.  They had had their trouble for nothing, they said.  It was a false alarm.  There were no Germans nearer than Liege.  And, besides, should the Germans come, the civil guard would meet them.

But, better informed than they, that morning the American minister, Brand Whitlock, and the Marquis Villalobar, the Spanish minister, had called upon the burgomaster and advised him not to defend the city.  As Whitlock pointed out, with the force at his command, which was the citizen soldiery, he could delay the entrance of the Germans by only an hour, and in that hour many innocent lives would be wasted and monuments of great beauty, works of art that belong not alone to Brussels but to the world, would be destroyed.  Burgomaster Max, who is a splendid and worthy representative of a long line of burgomasters, placing his hand upon his heart, said:  “Honor requires it.”

To show that in the protection of the Belgian Government he had full confidence, Mr. Whitlock had not as yet shown his colors.  But that morning when he left the Hotel de Ville he hung the American flag over his legation and over that of the British.  Those of us who had elected to remain in Brussels moved our belongings to a hotel across the street from the legation.  Not taking any chances, for my own use I reserved a green leather sofa in the legation itself.