That night the city was in delirium; the streets were a throbbing mass of joy-drunken beings such as was never seen before. No madness of carnival could approach the hysterical excitement of the people in streets illuminated for the first time in two years; in the cafés, where the almost forgotten sparkle of champagne gleamed in glasses raised to the cries “_Vive la Belgique! Vive le Roi! Vivent les Alliés!_” All through the main boulevards, shouting, singing, and laughing groups were to be seen dancing in large circles, hand-in-hand, about an English, French, or other Allied prisoner who had drunk so many glasses of triumph he was generally seated on the ground, or standing unsteadily, his hollow eyes staring in a dazed but contented fashion from a face somewhat pale and thin. In these groups all the Allied nations were blended with merry girls and boys giving vent to long-suppressed spirits. The Scotch lads, with their bare legs, flying cap-ribbons, and kilts, gave a delightfully comic touch, and added to the magic dream-effect of the whole. They were the cynosure of all eyes, the _pièce de résistance_ of the foreign element. When their troops passed during the royal procession, with bag-pipes in full voice, there was a lull of astonished wonder and interest, followed by a simultaneous outburst of acclamation. And that interest and admiration did not wane in the evening; crowds thronged about them, girls clung to them,—and at times the latter exhibited rather improper curiosity with regard to their “skirts.” Now and again automobiles, once so rare a sight in Brussels, forced the dancers apart for a moment, as a swift skiff might separate bright-coloured dragon-flies dancing above the still surface of a lake, only that they may unite with more vim after its passing. In one of these cars, most of which were military, a party of young American officers with their friends were making a tour of the city after a gay supper, during which some twelve of them had sung in full, clear voices all the beautiful and original songs of their nation, much to the hearers’ delight. At the head of the car floated a large American flag, borrowed from the café where they had regaled themselves. That flag was greeted with continual outbursts of applause, especially as one of the party, a man with the voice of a ship’s siren, startled even the reigning hubbub with shouts of “_Vive la Belgique! Vive le Roi! Vive la Liberté!_” Hundreds of voices at once responded, screaming almost hysterically, “_Vive l’Amérique!_” “_Vive Wilson!_”—and, as though the two English-speaking nations were indissolubly united in the public mind, almost every response was accompanied by “_Vive l’Angleterre!_” _Allemande_ and the _casque à pointe_ were forgotten. The Kaiser’s black shadow had fled before the glorious angel of a liberty crowned with the fairest laurels ever gathered from the bloody fields of battle—laurels flowering with noble loyalty and jewelled with imperishable fame.