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Now again we would halt to listen to some native's story
of battle or reprisal on ahead. And always there was the everlasting
dim reverberation of the distant guns to draw us forward. And always,
too, there was the difficulty of securing means of transportation.
It was on Sunday afternoon, August twenty-third, when we left Brussels,
intending to ride to Waterloo. There were six of us, in two ancient
open carriages designed like gravy boats and hauled by gaunt livery
horses. Though the Germans had held Brussels for four days now, life in
the suburbs went on exactly as it goes on in the suburbs of a Belgian
city in ordinary times. There was nothing to suggest war or a captured
city in the family parties sitting at small tables before the outlying
cafes or strolling decorously under the trees that shaded every road.
Even the Red Cross flags hanging from the windows of many of the larger
houses seemed for once in keeping with the peaceful picture. Of Germans
during the afternoon we saw almost none.


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