there is
going to be a terrific bombardment of Antwerp, and I think it will be
very interesting for you to see it." I remember replying with passionate
sincerity that I would rather die than see it; that if I could nurse the
wounded I would face any bombardment you please to name; but to go and
look on and make copy out of the sufferings I cannot help--I couldn't
and I wouldn't, and that was flat. And I wasn't a journalist any more
than I was a trained nurse.

I can still see the form of the Commandant rising up on the other side
of the scullery stove, and in his pained, uncomprehending gaze and in
the words he utters I imagine a challenge. It is as if he said, "Of
course, if you're _afraid_"--(haven't I told him that I _am_ afraid?).

The gage is thrown down on the scullery floor. I pick it up. And that is
why I am here on this singular adventure.

Thus, for the next three kilometres, I meditate on my cowardice. It is
all over as if it had never been, but how can I tell that it won't come
back again? I can only hope that when the Uhlans appear I shall behave
decently. And this place that we have come to is Ecloo. We are not very
far from Ghent.

A church spire, a few roofs rising above trees. Then many roofs all
together. Then the beautiful grey-white foreign city.

As we run through the streets we are followed by cyclists; cyclists
issue from every side-street and pour into our road; cyclists rise up
out of the ground to follow us. We don't realize all at once that it is
the ambulance they are following. Bowing low like racers over their
handle-bars, they shoot past us; they slacken pace and keep alongside,
they shoot ahead; the cyclists are most fearfully excited. It dawns on
us that they are escorting us; that they are racing each other; that
they are bringing the news of our arrival to the town. They behave as if
we were the vanguard of the British Army.

We pass the old Military Hospital--_Hopital Militaire_ No. I.--and
presently arrive at the Flandria Palace Hotel, which is _Hopital
Militaire_ No. II. The cyclists wheel off, scatter and disappear. The
crowd in the Place gathers round the porch of the hotel to look at the
English Ambulance.

We enter. We are received by various officials and presented to Madame
F., the head of the Red Cross nursing staff. There is some confusion,
and Mrs. Torrence finds herself introduced as the Secretary of the
English Committee. Successfully concealed behind the broadest