"Full up!" said the fat, white-faced porter rudely. "No room even on the floor to sleep."
"Can you give us something to eat?" we pleaded.
"Impossible! The kitchens are shut up."
He was a brute of a porter, an extraordinary man who never slept, and was on duty all night and all day.
He was hand in glove with the Germans all the time, his face did not belie him; he looked the ugliest, stealthiest creature, shewing a covert rudeness towards all English-speaking people, that many of us remember now and understand.
In the pitch darkness we set out again, clattering about the flagged streets of Ghent, a determined little party now, with our high spirits quite unchecked by hunger and fatigue, to try to find some sleeping place for the night.
From hotel to hotel we wandered; everyone was full; evidently a vast body of troops had arrived at Ghent that day. But, finally, at one o'clock we went last of all to the hotel we should have gone to first.
That was the Hôtel de la Poste. It being the chief hotel at Ghent, we had felt certain it would be impossible to get accommodation there. But other people had evidently thought so too, and the result was we all got a room.
From the outside, the hotel appeared to be in pitch darkness, but when we got within we found lights burning, and great companies of Belgian cavalry officers gathered in the lounge, and halls, finishing their supper.
"There are great movements of troops going on," said Jean. "This is the first time I have seen our army in Ghent."