The train-lines were still cut, and the only way of getting out of Brussels was to drive, unless one went on foot.
At the windy corner, accompanied by Jean and his two sisters, I stood, watching a wonderful drama.
There were people creeping in, as well as creeping out, peasants on foot, women and children who had fled in terror and were now returning to their little homes. It seemed to me as if the Germans must purposely have left this corner unwatched, unhindered, probably in the hope of getting more and more to return.
Little carts and big carts clattered up and came to a standstill alongside an old white inn, and Jean bargained and argued on my behalf for a seat.
There was one tiny cart, drawn by a donkey, with five young men in it.
The driver wanted six passengers, and began appealing to me in Flemish to come in.
"I will drive you all the way to Ghent if you like," he said.
"How much?"
"Ten francs."
Suddenly a hand pulled at my sleeve, and a hoarse voice whispered in my ear: