They all wear pink roses, or carnations, in their coats, or have pink flowers wreathed about their horses' harness or round their gun-carriages and provision motors; and sometimes they burst into subdued singing; but it is obvious that the enormous buildings of Antwerp, and its aspect of great wealth, and solidarity, fairly take away their breath, and their eyes quite plainly say chat they cannot understand how they come to be in possession of this great, rich, wonderful prize.
They look to left and right, their blue eyes full of curiosity. As I watch, I think of Bismarck's remark about London: "What a city to loot!"
That same thought is in the eyes of all these thousands of Germans as they come in to take possession of Antwerp, and they suddenly burst into song, "Pappachen," and "Die Wacht am Rhein."
But never very cheerily or very loudly do they sing.
I fancy at that moment, experiencing as they are that phase of naive and genuine amazement, the Germans are really less brute than usual.
And then, just as I am thinking that, I meet with my first personal experience of the meaning of "German brute."
A young officer has espied a notice-board, high above a café on the left.
A delighted grin overspreads his face and he quickly draws his companion's attention to it.
Together the two gaze smiling at the homelike words: "WINTER GARTEN," their blue eyes glued upon the board as they ride along.
The contrast between their gladness, and that old Belgian mother's agony, suddenly strikes through my heart like a knife.