All the road to Brussels was patrolled now. At the gates of villa gardens, on the side paths, grey German sentries were posted, bayonets fixed. We drove through Germans all the way. They looked at us quietly. Once only were we stopped again, and this time it was only the driver's passport that was looked at. At last we arrived at Hall, an old-world Brabant town containing a "miracle." As far as I can remember, it was a bomb from some bygone War that came through the church wall and was caught in the skirts of the Madonna! "Hall," said Jean, "is now the headquarters of the German Army in Belgium! The État-Majeur has been moved here from Brussels. He is in residence at the Hôtel de Ville. Voilà! See the Germans. They always pose themselves like that on the steps where there are any steps to pose on. Ah, mais c'est triste n'est-ce-pas? Mon pauvre Belgique!" We clattered up the main street and stopped at a little café, facing the Hotel de Ville. Stiffly we alighted from our waggonette, and entering the café quenched our thirst in lemonade, watching the Germans through the window as we rested. Nervous as I was myself, I admired the Belgians' sangfroid. They manifested not the slightest signs of nervousness. Scorn was their leading characteristic. Then a sad little story reached my ears. An old peasant was telling Jean that an English aviator had been shot down at Hall the day before, and was buried somewhere near. How I longed to look for my brave countryman's grave! But that was impossible. Instead, I breathed a prayer for his soul, and thought of him and his great courage with tenderness and respect. It was all I could do. CHAPTER XVII BRUSSELS