"Then came something newer even than wounded men, a motley stream of civilians, the Belgian refugees. They came out of the station like a flock of sheep, and the fear of the wolf was still in their eyes. The London crowd was confronted by this other crowd, so like itself, a crowd of men in bowler hats and black coats, of women with children clinging to their skirts; and it was one of the most dramatic meetings in history. The refugees were carrying their household goods with them, as much as could be tied in a bundle or shut in a hand-bag. Some of the women were weeping. One of them--I heard afterwards--had started with four children but had been separated from the eldest in the confusion of their flight. It was doubtful whether they would ever be re-united. "Now, as this new crowd streamed out of the gates of the station towards the vehicles that had been prepared for them, some of their faces lifted a little, and a light came into them that was more than the last radiance of the sunset. They looked as if they had seen a friend. It was a look of recognition; and though it was only a momentary gleam, it had a beauty so real and vivid that I turned my head to see what had caused it. "And there, over the sea of faces that reached now to the foot of the Nelson column, I saw something that went through me like great music. Facing the gates of the station, and lifting out of the midst of the crowd like the banner of a mighty host, nay, like the banner of all humanity, there was a placard on a pole. The sunset-light caught it and made it blaze like a star. It bore, in blood-red letters, the solemn inscription that I had seen in the earlier part of the day: 'VENEZ A MOI, VOUS TOUS QUI ETES TRAVAILLÉS ET CHARGÉS, ET JE VOUS SOULAGERAI.' "My blind man had found his niche in the universe. It was hardly possible that he was even conscious of what he was doing; hardly possible that he knew which side of his banner was turned towards the refugees, whether it was the English, that would mean nothing to them, or the French that would speak to them like a benediction. He had been swung to his place and held in it by external forces, held there, as I myself was jammed against the iron railings. But he had become, in one moment, the spokesman of mankind; and if he had done nothing else in all his life, it had been worth living for that one unconscious moment. "You may be interested to hear the conclusion of the doggerel which came into my head as I went home: _Now, as I ride through London, The long wet vistas shine, Beneath the wheeling searchlights, As they were washed with wine, And every darkened window Is holy as a shrine._ _The deep-eyed men and women Are fair beyond belief, Ennobled by compassion, And exquisite with grief. Along the streets of sorrow A river of beauty rolls. The faces in the darkness Are like immortal souls._" * * * * *