After that tragic day, Brussels came more and more under the tyranny of the “iron fist” by which the Kaiser once boasted he would win the world-power unattained by other and far more capable enemies of peace. German soldiers swarmed through the streets, always hurrying to fulfil urgent business of their impatient leaders, who, on their way to overwhelm France, panted to thrust the sword of ruin deeper into hapless Belgium. During those first weeks of the occupation the city appeared obsessed by a restless mass of grey-robed energy. Every unit of the vast armies seemed infected by this passion. The streets fairly roared with frenzy-driven automobiles, enormous war-like things, sombre as mighty death-machines, mostly torpedo-shaped, driven, with entire disregard for the safety of pedestrians, through streets ridded of all traffic that might hamper their way. The harsh or piercing cries of their horns never ceased; nor, when an officer of high rank was the occupant, the gay bugle notes, clear and triumphantly joyous, which so racked the aching nerves and hearts of every native. I think no one then in Brussels, who took the invasion to heart, will ever forget that bright, repeated melody so galling to those whose dear ones had perished in the unequal struggle. The _voyous_ of the rue Haute districts, however, found a means of shaming it to silence, after the great repulse at the Marne. They put words to the melody and sang them at full voice in echo, each time the bugle announced the presence of a high official. The words, which fitted perfectly, were: “_C’est loin à Paris!_” Presently, it was heard no more, and only then, it seemed, did the stunned Belgians begin to awake and take some interest in life. They could do little for their wounded; for all hospitals, as well as public buildings, were seized by the enemy to house Germany’s mutilated slaves, or serve as resting-places for troops. All the comfort many of these latter enjoyed was a litter of straw laid on the floors of corridors. I was obliged to step over their sleeping and evidently exhausted forms when, seeking a pass one day to go to our villa, ten miles from Brussels, I was erroneously led by a dull-witted soldier, who should not have admitted me, to the top floor of the post-office building. There I saw his commanding officer—who (it turned out) had nothing whatever to do with the giving of passes! Though it was after midday, the men lay sleeping like animals all along the hallways, and their chief, roused from repose on a sofa in a separate room, was angrily struggling into his great boots when I was announced. His rage at being disturbed, but more at having me appear before he was ready to receive me with impressive dignity, was vented in a volley of abusive language hurled at the wretched subordinate.