Having had breakfast, Kenneth went out. He had put on an overcoat, lent by his obliging hostess, in order to conceal the nondescript garments he had obtained as civilian clothes.
The crowded streets were strangely quiet. Beyond the occasional crying of a child or the barking of some of the numerous dogs, there was little sound from the listless throng.
When Kenneth was last in Brussels the people were vociferously discussing the situation, especially the momentarily expected arrival of the British Expeditionary Force. Now hope seemed dead. No longer was there any talk of foreign aid. People began to accept as a matter of course the fact that their city would be handed over to the Germans without opposition. Already the seat of government had been removed to Antwerp. The Civil Guards, who had at first commenced to erect barricades on the roads approaching from the eastward, had been ordered to remove the obstructions and to disarm themselves. In order to spare their city from sack and destruction, the Bruxellois had decided to admit the Huns without opposition.
Before Kenneth had gone very far his progress was barred by a vast concourse of people. Civil Guards were forcing a way through the throng, to allow the passing of a Red Cross convoy. There were thirty wagons, all filled to their utmost capacity, for the most part with mangled specimens of humanity. For every soldier wounded by a rifle-bullet there were, roughly, twenty-nine maimed by shell-fire.
Another battle had just taken place, with the now usual result. The Belgians, utterly outnumbered and outranged, had been compelled to fall back in spite of a determined and vigorous defence. Of their army a portion had retreated towards Ostend, while the greater part had retired to the shelter of the vast and supposedly impregnable fortress of Antwerp.
As soon as the convoy had passed, Kenneth hurried to the military depot. He found the place locked up. Not a soldier was to be seen. Enquiries brought the information that, regarding the fall of Brussels as inevitable, the authorities had transferred practically the whole of the military stores to Antwerp and Bruges.
"You want a uniform?" repeated the old citizen to whom Kenneth had announced his requirements. "Ma foi! Your only chance, unless you get a discarded uniform from the hospital (and there, alas! there are many), is to follow the army to Antwerp. But you are not a Belgian?"
"No, English," replied Kenneth. "And I must remain in Brussels for a few days."
"Then, mon garçon, put the idea of a uniform out of your head whilst you are here. Otherwise, when the Bosches arrive—— Ah, mon Dieu, they are barbarians!"
"Perhaps the old chap is right," thought Kenneth as he resumed his way. "I cannot desert Rollo, and if I were to be found in Belgian uniform it would mean at least a trip across the Rhine and confinement in a barbed-wire compound till the end of the war. Now for the Credit Belgique."