to filter down through a
mist which lay over the flat plain as we entered the suburbs of
Strasbourg.

Again and again we were halted by sentinels, then permitted to proceed
in the darkness, along deserted avenues lighted by gas-jets burning in
tall bronze lamp-posts through a halo of iridescent fog.

We passed deserted suburban villas, blank stretches of stucco walls
enclosing gardens, patches of cabbages, thickets of hop-poles to which
the drenched vines clung fantastically, and scores of abandoned
houses, shutters locked, blinds drawn.

High to the east the ramparts of the city loomed, set at regular
distances with electric lights; from the invisible citadel rockets
were rising, spraying the fog with jewelled flakes, crumbling to
golden powder in the starless void above.

Presently our carriage stopped before a tremendous mass of masonry
pierced by an iron, arched gate, through which double files of
farm-wagons were rolling, escorted by customs guards and marines.

"No room! no room!" shouted the soldiers. "This is the Porte de
Pierre. Go to the Porte de Saverne!"

So we passed on beneath the bastions, skirting the ramparts to the
Porte de Saverne, where, after a harangue, the gate guards admitted
us, and we entered Strasbourg in the midst of a crush of vehicles. At
the railroad station hundreds of cars choked the tracks; loaded
freight trains stalled in the confusion, trains piled with ammunition
and provisions, trains crowded with horses and cattle and sheep,
filling the air with melancholy plaints; locomotives backing and
whistling, locomotives blowing off deafening blasts of steam; gongs
sounding, bells ringing, station-masters' trumpets blowing; and, above
all, the immense clamor of human voices.

The Countess and our Alsatian driver helped me to the platform, I
looked around with dread at the throng, being too weak to battle for a
foothold; but the brave Alsatian elbowed a path for me, and the
Countess warded off the plunging human cattle, and at length I found
myself beside the cars where line-soldiers stood guard at every ten
paces and gendarmes stalked about, shoving the frantic people into
double files.

"Last train for Paris!" bawled an official in gilt and blue; and to
the anxious question of the Countess he shook his head, saying,
"There is no room, madame; it is utterly impossible--pardon, I cannot
discuss anything now; the Prussians are signalled at Ostwald, and
their shells may fall here at