'News came,' she wrote to the _Nursing Mirror_, 'that the Belgians, worn out and weary, were unable to hold back the oncoming host.... In the evening (August 20) came word that the enemy were at the gates. At midnight bugles were blowing, summoning the civic guard to lay down their arms and leave the city.... As we went to bed our only consolation was that in God's good time right and justice must prevail.' Although Nurse Cavell was an Englishwoman, and her sympathies were claimed for the people within whose gates she had laboured for eight years, her great heart could feel compassion for the physical sufferings of the invaders, for the article continued: 'Many more troops came through. From our road we could see the long procession, and when the halt was called at midday some were too weary to eat, and slept on the pavement in the street. We were divided between pity for these poor fellows, far from their country and their people, suffering the weariness and fatigue of an arduous campaign, and hate of a cruel and vindictive foe bringing ruin and desolation to a prosperous and peaceful land.' From that date Nurse Cavell was cut off from the outside world. Enveloped in the fog of war, nothing was heard of her for eight months, although she had arranged to act as special correspondent to the _Nursing Mirror_. Not until the month of April was another and last communication received. It was dated March 29, 1915, but was not delivered in London until seventeen days later, when it came to hand in a dilapidated condition and without any outward sign that it had undergone inspection by the Censor. The article cannot be quoted at full length, but a few paragraphs of it vividly depict the conditions of life under the iron heel of a relentless conqueror: 'From the day of the occupation till now we have been cut off from the world outside. Newspapers were first censored, then suppressed, and are now printed under German auspices; all coming from abroad were for a time forbidden, and now none are allowed from England.... 'The once busy and bustling streets are very quiet and silent; so are the people who were so gay and communicative in the summer. No one speaks to his neighbour in the tram, for he may be a spy. Besides, what news is there to tell, and who has the heart to gossip? 'I am but a looker-on after all, for it is not my country whose soil is desecrated and whose sacred places are laid waste. I can only feel the deep and tender pity of the friend within the gates, and observe with sympathy and admiration the high courage and self-control of a people enduring a long and terrible agony.'