The whole town was like a sea of fire. The Germans, who are nothing if not thorough, even in the matter of arson, had worked out their scheme in great detail. In most houses they had poured some benzine or paraffin on the floor, put a lighted match to it, and thrown a small black disc, the size of a farthing, on the burning spot, and then immediately the flames flared up with incredible fury. I do not know the constituents of this particular product of "Kultur." Nor did I see any inhabitants in the burning town. It was practically impossible to stay in the streets; burning walls and roofs and gutters crashed down with a great noise, so that the streets were as much on fire as the houses themselves. Only at the crossings were any soldiers to be seen, who, in various stages of intoxication, constantly aimed at the burning houses, and shot everything that tried to escape from the burning stables and barns: pigs, horses, cows, dogs, and so on. Suddenly I saw a boy about twelve years old in one of the burning streets. He waved his arms, rushed madly to and fro, calling for his father and mother, and his little brother and sisters. He was in danger of perishing in the fire, or being killed by the murderous bullet from a rifle. I ran after him, laid hold of him, and in spite of his resistance pulled him back. Fortunately I met a couple of kind, sober soldiers to whom I told the story, and who promised to send the boy away from the burning town. Shortly afterwards I met a Netherland Red Cross motor-car. The male nurses, who had met me already on former occasions during the war, recognised me, rushed up to me, and forced me to come with them to the car. Here they tried to explain with a torrential flow of words that I exposed myself to the greatest danger by coming here, as nearly all the soldiers were drunk, shot at every civilian, and so on. They insisted upon my staying near the car, and be a little safer under the protection of the Red Cross. They told me how they had to drag an old woman out of her house, who refused to come with them, and in her despair shouted nothing but: "Let me die!--let me die!" I could not say or do anything, for I felt as if stunned, and let them lead me where they liked; so they gave me a glass of claret, and that revived me. A few moments after they went away I went also, and entered the burning town once more. A Netherland family lived in Villa Rustica, and I had promised to make inquiries about them. As I stood there looking at the ruins of what was once so fine a house, a small group of refugees approached, carrying as usual their miserable parcels in which they had hurriedly collected the things that had the least value. As they saw me they shuddered and shivered and crept closer together. Most of them wept and sobbed, and their faces were twisting nervously.