There was Ypres Cathedral!  A place of silence that breathed of Heaven itself.  There was its superb bell tower, and its peal of silver-tongued chimes.  There were wonderful Old World houses, quaint steps and turns and alleys.  It was a city of delight, a city that charmed and awed by its impressive grandeur.

Now the city was massed with refugees from the ravaged parts of Belgium.  In peace times possibly the population would have numbered thirty-five to forty thousand, at this time it seemed that sixty thousand souls were crowded into the city limits.  Every house, every estaminet, every barn, every stable was filled to its capacity with folk who had fled in despair before the cloven hoof of the advancing Hun.

Glance at the map on page 142 and judge of the condition of a city practically surrounded on all sides by the enemy.  Three miles away to the left, three miles away to the right, and a matter of only ten miles away from the immediate front of the city.  For months the Germans had shelled the town every day.  Not with a continued violence, but with a continued, systematic irritation which played havoc with the strongest nerves.  Not a day passed that two or three women, or half a dozen children or babies did not pay the toll to the war god’s lust of blood.

But still the people remained in the city.  There was no alternative.  Conditions behind Ypres were just the same, and all the way back to Calais.  Every town and every village, every hamlet and every farm had its quota of refugees.  Here they stayed and waited grimly for the day of liberation.

One day I walked out from Ypres a few miles.  I came to the village of Vlamentinge.  I went into an estaminet and called for some refreshment.  From among the crowd of soldiers gathered there a civilian Belgian made his way over to me.  He was crippled or he would not have been in civilian clothes.

“Hello, old boy!” he said to me in perfect English.  “How are you?”

I replied, but must have looked my astonishment at his knowledge of my language, for he went on to explain.

“I got over from the States just the week war broke out.  I worked in North Dakota, and had saved up and planned to come over and marry my sweetheart, who waited in Brussels for me.  I have not seen her.  She must be lost in the passing of the enemy.  I have gathered a very little money, enough to start on the small farm which is my inheritance.  Come and see it—­come and have dinner with me.”

I accepted his invitation, and we walked over together.  The Belgian spoke all the way of his fine property and good farm.  All the while there was a twinkle in his eye, and at last I asked him what size was his great farm.

“Ten acres,” said he, and laughed at my amazement at so small a holding.

We reached the house, which proved to be a three-roomed shack.  In a little, dinner was served and we went in to sit down.  Not only the owner and myself, but fifteen others sat down to a meal of weak soup and war bread.  The other guests at the table were fourteen old women and one young girl.  They sat in a steady brooding silence.  I asked the Belgian if they understood English.  They did not, and so I questioned him.