The streets were crowded with refugees from the war-inundated districts. Throngs of pale-faced women and children, for the most part unnaturally apathetic, stood in mute despair around the country carts piled high with their belongings. Many of them had seen their houses torn by shot and shell, their neighbours slain by the German guns. Rendered homeless, they had fled to Brussels; their villages might be overrun and occupied by the invaders, but the capital--never! The Allies would never permit that. Old men related the tales of their grandsires, how, almost a hundred years ago, England saved Brussels from the invader. History would, they felt convinced, repeat itself. So in their thousands the refugees poured into the already congested streets of the city. Kenneth and his companion were indeed fortunate in securing the room they had occupied during their previous stay in the Belgian capital. Quickly divesting themselves of the civilian garb that they had managed to procure, they threw themselves into bed and slept like logs until nine the next morning. When Rollo attempted to rise he found that his ankle had swollen to such an extent that it was almost a matter of impossibility to set foot to ground. The excitement and continual movement of the previous day had tended to make him forget the injury, but once his boot was removed and the limb allowed to rest, inflammation and consequent enlargement of the joint were the result. "Take it easy, old man," suggested Kenneth. "When we've had breakfast I'll saunter out and see how things are progressing. Let me see, what's the programme? New uniforms; money--we have about ten centimes between the pair of us. It's lucky the pater placed that fifty pounds to my credit in the bank. The trouble is, how am I to prove my identity? Then there's Thelma. Perhaps Major Résimont's family has returned to the Rue de la Tribune, so I'll find out. I'll be gone some little time, old man." "I don't mind," replied Rollo. "Before you go, you might get hold of a paper." The cost of their simple breakfast was an "eye-opener". Already famine prices were being asked in the overcrowded city. Somewhat shamefacedly Kenneth had to explain the reason for his pecuniary embarrassment; but to his surprise the short, podgy woman who corresponded to the British landlady expressed her willingness to wait until messieurs les Anglais were accommodated. "Perhaps, although I trust not, I may have to entertain Prussians," she added. "Then I know it is hopeless to expect payment." Having had breakfast, Kenneth went out. He had put on an overcoat, lent by his obliging hostess, in order to conceal the nondescript garments he had obtained as civilian clothes. The crowded streets were strangely quiet. Beyond the occasional crying of a child or the barking of some of the numerous dogs, there was little sound from the listless throng.