I ask him nothing, I go away, back to the hotel. One o'clock, and we learn that the fighting outside is terribly hot. Two o'clock. Cars come flying in. They tell us that shells are falling about five miles out, on Vieux Dieux. Three o'clock. A man rushes in and says that all is over; the last train leaves Antwerp to-night; the Government is going; it is our last chance to escape. "How far is Holland?" asks someone. "About half an hour away," he answers. I listen dreamily. Holland sounds very near. I wonder what I am going to do. Am I going to stay and see the Germans enter? But maybe they will never enter. The unexpected will happen. We shall be saved at the eleventh hour. It is impossible that Antwerp can fall. "They will be shelling the town before twenty-four hours," says one young man, and he calls for another drink. When he has had it he says he wishes he hadn't. "They will never shell the town," says a choleric old Englishman. And he adds in the best English manner, "It could never be permitted!" Outside, the day dies down. The sound of cannon has entirely ceased. One can hear nothing now, nothing at all, but the loud and shrill cries of the newsboys and women selling _Le Matin d'Anvers_ and _Le Métropole_ in the streets. A strange hushed silence hangs over the besieged city, and through the silence the clocks strike six, and almost immediately the _maître d'hôtel_ comes along and informs us that we ought to come in to dinner soon, as to-day the lights must go out at nightfall! But I go into the streets instead. It seems to me that the population of Antwerp has suddenly turned into peasants. Peasants everywhere, in crowds, in groups, in isolated numbers. Bareheaded women, hollow-cheeked men, little girls and boys, and all with bundles, some pathetically small, done up in white or blue cloths, and some huge and grotesque, under which the peasants stagger along through the streets that were fashionable streets only just now, and now have turned into a sort of sad travesty of the streets of some distant village. A curious rosy hue falls over the faces in the streets, the shop-windows glow like rubies, the gold on the Gothic buildings burns like crimson fire. Overhead a magnificent sunset is spreading its banners out over the deserted city. Then night falls; the red fades; Antwerp turns grey and sombre. But the memory of that rose in the west remains, and in hope we wait, we are still waiting, knowing not what the morrow may bring forth. CHAPTER XXX WEDNESDAY Last night the moon was so bright that my two pets, rescued from the ruins of Lierre, woke up and began to talk. Or was it the big guns that woke them, the canary, and the grey Congo parrot? It might have been! For sometimes the city seemed to shake all over, and as I lay in bed I wondered who was firing: Germans, Belgians, English, which?