“Stories of the sacking of Louvain, which are almost unbelievable in their horror, reach here (Rotterdam) from the frontier. One of the most vivid is that of an assistant in a bicycle shop, who, though a Dutchman, was given special facilities for escape owing to his being mistaken for a German. “‘At mid-day last Tuesday,’ he begins, ‘a fearful uproar broke out in the streets while we were at dinner, and the crackle of musketry was soon followed by the roar of artillery near at hand. “‘Hearing shrieks from the inhabitants of our streets, I rushed to the window and saw that several houses were already in flames. Soldiers were smashing the shop windows and looting in all directions. Shot Down Like Rabbits. “‘As the people rushed into the streets from the burning houses they were shot down like rabbits. With my governor, his wife, and little boy, we fled to the cellar, where I and the boy hid under a pile of tyres, while the manager crept into a chest, and his wife far into a drain, where she stood with water up to her waist for many hours. “‘Night fell and the sound of shooting in the streets became brisker. I crept out of my hiding-place to get some water, and, peeping out of the window, saw, to my horror, that almost the whole street was in ruins. Then we found that our own house was alight, and it was necessary to choose between bolting and being burnt to death where we were. “‘I decided to make a dash for it, but the moment I was outside the door three Germans held me up with their revolvers and asked me where I was going. My reply was that I was a German, and that my master and his wife were Germans who had been trapped in the burning house. “‘Apparently my German was good enough to make them believe my statement, for they promised to give us safe conduct out of the town. Our walk through the streets to the railway station I shall always remember as a walk through hell. “‘The beautiful town, with its noble buildings, was a sea of flame. Dead bodies lay thick in the streets. Dreadful cries came from many of the houses. It was half-past five on Wednesday morning when we reached the railway station. Soldiers were even then still going about the streets with lighted brands and explosives in their hands, setting alight any buildings that still remained intact. “‘In the parks they had already begun to bury the dead, but in many cases so shallow were the graves that a large part of each body was still visible. At the railway station we witnessed a truly harrowing spectacle. Fifty citizens, both men and women, had been brought from houses from which the soldiers swore that shots had been fired. “‘They were lined up in the street, protesting with tears in their eyes that they were innocent. Then came a firing squad. Volley followed volley, and the fifty fell dead where they stood.’