Then, to my horror, I see two old men waving gaily to that long grey oncoming line of men and horses.
And then I see a woman flinging flowers to an officer, who catches them and sticks them into his horse's bridle.
At that moment I realise I am in for some extraordinary experience, something that Brussels has not in the least prepared me for!
CHAPTER XL
THE LAUGHTER OF BRUTES
Along the Avenue the grey uniforms are slowly marching, headed by fair, blue-eyed, arrogant officers on splendid roan horses, and the clang and clatter of them breaks up the silence with a dramatic sharpness—the silence that has never been heard in Antwerp since!
As they come onward, the Germans look from left to right.
I stand on the pavement watching, drawn there by some irresistible force.
Eagerly I search their faces, looking now for the horrid marks of the brute triumphant, gloating over his prey. But the brute triumphant is not there to-day, for these thousands of Germans who march into Antwerp on this historic Friday, are characterised by an aspect of dazed incredulity that almost amounts to fear.