All along the Avenue de Commerce, gathered in the heavy greyness on the side-paths, are little straggling groups of _Anversois._ As I look at them, I suddenly experience a sensation of suffocation. Am I dreaming? Or are they really _smiling_, those people, _smiling to the Germans!_ Then, to my horror, I see two old men waving gaily to that long grey oncoming line of men and horses. And then I see a woman flinging flowers to an officer, who catches them and sticks them into his horse's bridle. At that moment I realise I am in for some extraordinary experience, something that Brussels has not in the least prepared me for! CHAPTER XL THE LAUGHTER OF BRUTES Along the Avenue the grey uniforms are slowly marching, headed by fair, blue-eyed, arrogant officers on splendid roan horses, and the clang and clatter of them breaks up the silence with a dramatic sharpness--the silence that has never been heard in Antwerp since! As they come onward, the Germans look from left to right. I stand on the pavement watching, drawn there by some irresistible force. Eagerly I search their faces, looking now for the horrid marks of the brute triumphant, gloating over his prey. But the brute triumphant is not there to-day, for these thousands of Germans who march into Antwerp on this historic Friday, are characterised by an aspect of dazed incredulity that almost amounts to fear. They all wear pink roses, or carnations, in their coats, or have pink flowers wreathed about their horses' harness or round their gun-carriages and provision motors; and sometimes they burst into subdued singing; but it is obvious that the enormous buildings of Antwerp, and its aspect of great wealth, and solidarity, fairly take away their breath, and their eyes quite plainly say chat they cannot understand how they come to be in possession of this great, rich, wonderful prize. They look to left and right, their blue eyes full of curiosity. As I watch, I think of Bismarck's remark about London: "_What a city to loot!_" That same thought is in the eyes of all these thousands of Germans as they come in to take possession of Antwerp, and they suddenly burst into song, "Pappachen," and "Die Wacht am Rhein." But never very cheerily or very loudly do they sing. I fancy at that moment, experiencing as they are that phase of naive and genuine amazement, the Germans are really less brute than usual. And then, just as I am thinking that, I meet with my first personal experience of the meaning of "_German brute_." A young officer has espied a notice-board, high above a café on the left. A delighted grin overspreads his face and he quickly draws his companion's attention to it. Together the two gaze smiling at the homelike words: "_WINTER GARTEN_," their blue eyes glued upon the board as they ride along. The contrast between their gladness, and that old Belgian mother's agony, suddenly strikes through my heart like a knife.