"She is eighty-four, ma pauvre mère! We tried to take her to Holland, but it was impossible. But now that the bombardment has ceased and the worst is over, it seems wiser to remain. In the hospital the mère will be surely safe! As for us, my husband and I, truly, we have lost our all. There is nothing left to fear!"
I offered to accompany the old lady to the hospital, and presently we started off. Henri and I, and the old wrinkled Flemish woman, and the buxom young Flemish servant, Jeanette.
We drove along the Avenue de Commerce, down the Avenue de Kaiser, towards the hospital. The town was dead. Not a soul was to be seen. The Marché aux Souliers was all ablaze; I saw the Taverne Royale lying on the ground. Next to it was the Hotel de l'Europe, bomb-shattered and terrific in its ruins. I thought of Mr. Jeffries of the Daily Mail and shivered; that had been his hotel. The air reeked with petroleum and smoke. At last we got to the hospital.
The door-step was covered with blood, and red, wet blood was in drops and patches along the entrance.
As I went in, an unforgettable sight met my eyes.
I found myself in a great, dim ward, with the yellow, lurid skies looking in through its enormous windows, and its beds full of wounded and dying soldiers; and just as I entered, a white-robed Sister of Mercy was bending over a bed, giving the last unction to a dying man. Some brave petit Belge, who had shed his life-blood for his city, alas, in vain!
All the ordinary nurses had gone.
The Sisters of Mercy alone remained.
And suddenly it came to me like a strain of heavenly music that death held no terrors for these women; life had no fears.
Softly they moved about in their white robes, their benign faces shining with the look of the Cross.