Its potency was so epic, so immense, that I felt as if I must remain there for ever rooted to the spot where I had heard it.... It went thrilling through my being. It struck me harder than any shell, seeming to fell me for a moment to the ground.... Then I rose, permeated with a sense of living in the world's greatest drama, and _feeling_, not _seeing_, Art and Life and Death and Literature inextricably and terribly, yet gloriously mixed, till one could not be told from the other.... For he who had given his life, whose blood dropped red from him as he moved, knew not what had happened to his city. He was only a soldier! His was to fight, not to know. "_Est-ce que la ville est prise?_" It is months since then, but I still hear that perishing soldier's voice, breaking over his terrific query. * * * * * ... Presently, rousing myself, I ran onwards and walked beside the men, giving my arm to the younger one, who took it mechanically, without thanking me. I liked that, and all together we hastened through the livid greyness along the Avenue de Commerce, towards the Breda Gate. In dead silence we laboured onwards. It was still a solitary walk, for neither of my companions said a word. Only sometimes, without speaking, one of them would turn his head and look backwards, without stopping, at the red flames reflected in the black sky to northward. Suddenly, to our amazement, we saw a cart coming down a side-street, containing a man and a little girl. I ran like lightning towards it, terrified lest it should pass, but that man in the cart had a soul, he had seen the bleeding soldiers, he was stopping of himself, he offered to take me, too. "Quick, quick, mes amis!" he said. "The Germans are coming in at the other end even now! The petite here was lost, and thanks to the Bon Dieu I have just found her. That is why I am so late." As the soldiers crawled painfully into the little cart, I whispered to the elder one: "Do you know where your King is, Monsieur?" Ah, the flash in that hollow eye! It was worth risking one's life to see it, and to hear the love that leapt into the Belgian's voice as he answered: "Truly, I know not exactly! But wherever he is I _do_ know this. _Notre Roi est sur le Champ de Bataille._" Oh, beautiful speech! "_Sur le Champ de Bataille!_" Where else would Albert be indeed? "_Sur le Champ de Bataille!_" I put it beside the Epic Question! Together they lie there in my heart, imperishable, and more precious than any written poem! CHAPTER XXXVII ENTER LES ALLEMANDS It is now half-past one, and I am back at the hotel. At least, my watch says it is half-past one. But all the many great gold-faced clocks in Antwerp have stopped the day before, and their hands point mockingly to a dozen different times. One knows that only some ghastly happening could have terrified them into such wild mistakes.