The prospect finally drives us, with a panic-stricken crowd, on to the boat. And so, exactly six hours after we landed, we rush back again to England. Among the crowd are Italians, Belgians, British and a couple of Americans. An old Franciscan priest sits down, and philosophically tucks into a hearty lunch. Belgian priests crouch about in attitudes of great depression. Poor priests! They know how the Germans treat priests in this well-named "Holy War!" CHAPTER II ON THE WAY TO ANTWERP A couple of days afterward, however, feeling thoroughly ashamed of having fled, and knowing that Ostend was now reinforced by English Marines, I gathered my courage together once more, and returned to Belgium. This time, so that I should not run away again so easily, I took with me a suit-case, and a couple of trunks. These trunks contained clothes enough to last a summer and a winter, the MS. of a novel--"Our Marriage," which had appeared serially, and all my chiffons. In fact I took everything I had in my wardrobe. I thought it was the simplest thing to do. So it was. But it afterwards proved an equally simple way of losing all I had. Getting back to Ostend, I left my luggage at the Maritime Hotel, and hurried to the railway station. I had determined to go to Antwerp for the day and see if it would be possible to make my headquarters in that town. "Pas de train!" said the ticket official. "But why?" "C'est la guerre!" "Comment!" "_C'est la guerre, Madame!_" That was the answer one received to all one's queries in those days. If you asked why the post had not come, or why the boat did not sail for England, or why your coffee was cold, or why your boots were not cleaned, or why your window was shut, or why the canary didn't sing,--you would always be sure to be told, "c'est la guerre!" Next morning, however, the train condescended to start, and three hours after its proper time we steamed away from Ostend. Slowly, painfully, through the hot summer day, our long, brown train went creeping towards Anvers! Anvers! The very name had grown into an emblem of hope in those sad days, when the Belgians were fleeing for their lives towards the safety of their great fortified city on the Scheldt. Oh, to see them at every station, crushing in! In they crowd, and in they crowd, herding like dumb, driven cattle; and always the poor, white-faced women with their wide, innocent eyes, had babies in their arms, and little fair-haired Flemish children hanging to their skirts. Wherever we stopped, we found the platforms lined ten deep, and by the wildness with which these fugitives fought their way into the crowded carriages, one guessed at the pent-up terror in those poor hearts! They _must_, they _must_ get into that train! You could see it was a matter of life and death with them. And soon every compartment was packed, and on we went through the stifling, blinding August day--onwards towards Antwerp.