By 2 o’clock Thursday most of the tugboats had got away, but there were still some 15,000 people who had not been able to escape, and had to await resignedly whatever fate was in store for them.

I have endeavored to describe the scenes at the quayside on Thursday morning, and I now turn to the Central Station, where incidents of a similar kind were happening.  There, as down by the river, an immense throng of people had assembled, and they were filled with dismay at the announcement that no trains were running.  In their despair they prepared to leave the city on foot by crossing the pontoon bridge and marching toward the Dutch frontier.

I cannot, of course, speak positively on the subject, but I should say the exodus of refugees from the city must have totaled 200,000 persons—­men, women, and children of all ages—­or very nearly that vast number, and that out of a population which in normal times is 321,821.  One might estimate that fully 70 per cent. of those folk had little or no money.

There were three lines of exit.  They could up to the time of the German invasion cross the pontoon bridge over the Scheldt; they could go along the countryside toward the Dutch frontier, or they could walk up the Scheldt toward the frontier and then cross by ferry to Belgian territory again.

Many of the aged women among the refugees, terrorized and hunger-stricken, died, I am told, on the way to the Belgian frontier.  The towns were crowded with pitiful wanderers, fleeing from the ruthless invaders, and they begged for crusts of bread.  They were simply starving, and householders did what they could to help, cottagers giving to their utmost out of their meagre larders, but still there was a cry for food.

I now return to the events of Thursday.  At 12:30 o’clock in the afternoon, when the bombardment had already lasted over twelve hours, through the courtesy of a Belgian officer I was able to ascend to the roof of the cathedral, and from that point of vantage I looked down upon the scene in the city.

All the southern portion of Antwerp appeared to be a desolate ruin.  Whole streets were ablaze, and flames were rising in the air to the height of twenty and thirty feet.  In another direction I could just discern through my glasses dimly in the distance the instruments of culture of the attacking German forces, ruthlessly pounding at the city and creeping nearer to it in the dark.  At that moment I should say the enemy’s front line was within four miles of Antwerp.

From my elevated position I had an excellent view also of the great oil tanks on the opposite side of the Scheldt.  They had been set on fire by four bombs from a German taube, and a huge, thick volume of black smoke was ascending 200 feet into the air.  The oil had been burning furiously for several hours, and the whole neighborhood was enveloped in a mist of smoke.