Le brave Beige!  The question on that day was not, Are you brave? but, Do you know how to fight?  Also, Would the French and the British arrive in time to help you?  Of a thousand rumours about the positions of the French and the British armies, one was as good as another.  All the observer knew was that he was an atom in a motor-car and all he saw for the defence of Belgium was a regiment of Belgians digging trenches.  He need not have been in Belgium before to realize that here was an unwarlike people, living by intensive thrift and caution—­a most domesticated civilization in the most thickly-populated workshop in Europe, counting every blade of grass and every kernel of wheat and making its pleasures go a long way at small cost; a hothouse of a land, with the door about to be opened to the withering blast of war.

Out of the Hotel de Ville at Louvain, as our car halted by the cathedral door, came an elderly French officer, walking with a light, quick step, his cloak thrown back over his shoulders, and hurriedly entered a car; and after him came a tall British officer, walking more slowly, imperturbably, as a man who meant to let nothing disturb him or beat him—­both characteristic types of race.  This was the break-up of the last military conference held at Louvain, which had now ceased to be Belgian Headquarters.

How little you knew and how much they knew!  The sight of them was helpful.  One was the representative of a force of millions of Frenchman; of the army.  I had always believed in the French army, and have more reason now than ever to believe in it.  There was no doubt that if a French corps and a German corps were set the task of marching a hundred miles to a strategic position, the French would arrive first and win the day in a pitched battle.  But no one knew this better than that German Staff whose superiority, as von Moltke said, would always ensure victory.  Was the French army ready?  Could it bring the fullness of its strength into the first and perhaps the deciding shock of arms?  Where was the French army?

The other officer who came out of the Hotel de Ville was the representative of a little army—­a handful of regulars—­hard as nails and ready to the last button.  Where was the British army?  The restaurant keeper where we had luncheon at Louvain—­he knew.  He whispered his military secret to me.  The British army was toward Antwerp, waiting to crush the Germans in the flank should they advance on Brussels.  We were “drawing them on!” Most cheerful, most confident, mine host!  When I went back to Louvain under German rule his restaurant was in ruins.

We were on our way to as near the front as we would go, with a pass which was written for us by a Belgian reservist in Brussels between sips of beer brought him by a boy scout.  It was a unique, a most accommodating pass; the only one I have received from the Allies’ side which would have taken me into the German lines.