There was one little boat, quite near to us, which seemed to be waiting for some one. There were some people on it, but it was not crowded. “Come,” I said, “this is for us. We must wade out to it.” So I took my wife by the hand, and the child in the other arm, and we went into the water. Soon it came up to our knees, to our waists. “Hurry,” shouted the old man at the tiller. “No time to spare!” “Just a minute more,” I answered, “only one minute!” That minute seemed like a year. The sail of the boat was shaking in the wind. When it filled she must move away. We waded on, and at last I grasped the gunwale of the boat. I lifted the child in and helped my wife to climb over the side. They clung to me. The little vessel began to move gently away. “Get in,” cried the old man sharply; “get in quick.” But I felt that I could not, I dared not. I let go of the boat. I cried “Good-by,” and turned to wade ashore. I was compelled to go back to the doomed city. I must know what would come of the parting of Man from God! The tide was running out more swiftly. The water swirled around my knees. I awoke. But the dream remained with me, just as I have told it to you. ANTWERP ROAD [OCTOBER, 1914] Along the straight, glistening road, through a dim arcade of drooping trees, a tunnel of faded green and gold, dripping with the misty rain of a late October afternoon, a human tide was flowing, not swiftly, but slowly, with the patient, pathetic slowness of weary feet, and numb brains, and heavy hearts. Yet they were in haste, all of these old men and women, fathers and mothers, and little children; they were flying as fast as they could; either away from something that they feared, or toward something that they desired. That was the strange thing--the tide on the road flowed in two directions. Some fled away from ruined homes to escape the perils of war. Some fled back to ruined homes to escape the desolation of exile. But all were fugitives, anxious to be gone, striving along the road one way or the other, and making no more speed than a creeping snail's pace of unutterable fatigue. I saw many separate things in the tide, and remembered them without noting.