, October
8th,--the second and last night which the town held out, all of the
Americans who were left gathered at the Queen's. The firing by this
time was terrific. Except for the lurid glare of the burning buildings
which lit up the streets, the city was in total darkness. For weeks
martial law had been in effect and there were no lights after sundown.
An unearthly feeling it was, to be locked in the darkness of this
strange city, unable to speak a word of the language, not knowing
whether the garrison had evacuated the forts or whether the city had
been surrendered, believing there would be street righting or an
insurrection of franc-tireurs. At times we heard through the darkness
the tramp of squads of soldiers. Surely, we thought, there come the
Germans. We remembered the atrocities at Louvain.

About an hour after darkness settled on us I climbed to the roof of the
Queen's Hotel, from which, for a few minutes, I looked out upon the
most horrible and at the same time the most gorgeous panorama that
I ever hope to see. The entire southern portion of the city appeared a
desolate ruin; whole streets were ablaze, and great sheets of fire rose
to the height of thirty or forty feet.

The night, like the preceding, was calm and quiet, without a breath of
wind. On all sides rose greedy tongues of flame which seemed to
thirst for things beyond their reach. Slowly and majestically the sparks
floated skyward; and every now and then, following the explosion of a
shell, a new burst of flame lighted up a section hitherto hidden in
darkness. The window panes of the houses still untouched flashed
the reflection in our eyes.

Even more glorious was the scene to the north. On the opposite side
of the Scheldt the oil tanks, the first objects to be set on fire by bombs
from the German Taubes, were blazing furiously and vomiting huge
volumes of oil-laden smoke. Looking over on this side of the river,
too, I could see the crackling wooden houses of the village of St.
Nicolas, lighting with their glow all of northern Antwerp and the
water-front. In the swampy meadows on the farther bank we could see the
frightened refugees as they hurried along the still protected road to
Ghent. They passed on our side of the burning village, not five
hundred yards away. Every now and then as a fitful flame lighted the
meadow I could see the figures silhouetted against the red
background.

They appeared to be actually walking through t