We all immediately took part in these preparations, each one eager to do his share, however little, in readiness for the first sad harvest of battle. No one then realized how few of Belgium’s brave sons would reap the benefit of these fond efforts; but it was not long ere appalling circumstances made this clear to the disappointed inhabitants. Hour by hour shocking news reached us from the scene of struggle, such as the fall of one fort after another at Liège, followed by the enemies’ onward rush; while tales of their pitiless cruelty caused brief waves of apprehension to pass over the city—waves quickly calmed, however, by indomitable and astounding faith. That the French and British would come in time was the prevailing argument; there was no danger nor cause for discouragement. Even though the forts had fallen, Belgium could hold the invaders in check until adequate assistance arrived; her forces might be driven back, step by step, for a short distance, but soon would have the upper hand and drive the foe back into Germany! Such was the reasoning of a public blinded by their heroic impulse to the situation’s real peril. No sign of discouragement could be detected even when the remorseless grey tide was sweeping through ruined and blood-soaked districts toward the heart of their land. And it was not merely the uneducated who received the ill-tidings with this amazing confidence, but men of high standing and competent judgment. Never, at that time, did I hear a word indicative of fear; the enthusiastic faith of the first days still remained unshaken. Although the Government had already withdrawn from Brussels, no one believed that the capital was in danger; at any rate, no word was uttered in my hearing that betrayed the least anxiety on that score. “Have no fear,” the hotel proprietor remarked, as I passed through the lobby after breakfast on that fateful 20th of August 1914; “there is no danger of _les Boches_ getting to Brussels. Our men are falling back only to gather force and attain better positions. Besides, the French and British are now at hand; we need only hold out a day or two longer, and then—_nous verrons_!” On every side the same confidence greeted me: “_Les Boches_ are checked!... _Ils sont fichus!_... The British are in Antwerp!... In two weeks we shall be in Berlin!” and so forth; all spoken with a sort of delirious recklessness, suggesting determination not to recognize disquieting facts. An hour or so after I left the hotel that morning, my way was blocked by a silent wall of people, lined on either side of the Boulevard d’Anvers, watching, in stupefied wonder, a seemingly interminable tide of grey-clad warriors—the Prussian Fourth Corps, under command of General von Armin—proudly taking possession of their fair city!