The War, with all its horrors, into which the Emperor of Germany plunged the world in August 1914, had been raging nearly six weeks, when, towards the end of September, vague rumours of the enemy’s approach reached us at Ypres. Several villages in the neighbourhood had had visits from the dreaded Uhlans, and, according to report, more than one prisoner had avowed that they were on their way to Ypres. An aeroplane had even been sent from Ghent to survey the town, but had lost its way. In these circumstances, the burgomaster sent round word that from henceforward, until further orders, no strong lights should be seen from the outside, and no bells should be rung from six in the evening till the following day. Consequently, when night came on, the Monastery remained in darkness, each nun contenting herself with the minimum of light; and a few strokes of a little hand-bell summoned the community to hours of regular observance, instead of the well-known sound of the belfry-bell, which had, for so many years, fearlessly made known each succeeding hour. Another result of the burgomaster’s notice was that we were no longer able to say the office in the choir, as on one side the windows looked on the street, and on the other to the garden, the light being thus clearly visible from the ramparts. We, therefore, said compline and matins, first in the work-room, and afterwards in the chapter-house, placing a double set of curtains on the windows to prevent the least little glimmer of light from being seen from the outside.