But the success outside Malines had reassured the peasants. They could be seen dribbling slowly back to their cottages in unobtrusive clusters on road and field. A troop train, crammed with soldiers sitting close on the floor of cattle-trucks, many of them of the volunteer army, brought me back towards the headquarters. Troops were constantly leaving us, and fresh truckloads being added: all in good heart, and full of individual exploits. We were banged about, and shunted here and there among guns and ammunition trains. At one point the firing sounded only just across the field. The train stopped, and several trucks emptied in little coloured floods of soldiers into the wet fields. The men doubled in open order, just over the edge, out of sight through the green park-like trees in the sunlight. The scattered fire gradually drew away; and we moved slowly on again. Antwerp, Friday night. At St. Nicholas, the headquarters of the General commanding on the west, I ran again into the uneasy, strained atmosphere of the towns near the fighting line. It was familiar at Namur and elsewhere. Uncertainty, constant coming and going, parade, spy-mania, secrecy, and military rule. In such places the civilian is like a child confused in the middle of a race-course; something to be herded and scuffled out of the way; suspicion of others is the only safe outlet for his panic feeling. We do not know this condition yet in England. May we never experience it! To catch an eye is to create an enemy. A sudden movement brings a rush of the silent crowd. An outward routine; an inward volcano of fear, mistrust, and over-strained nerves.