BRABANT
It was like a chapter out of quite another story to leave the train at
Grammont, and find ourselves in the flagged old Brabant square in front
of the station, that hot glittering end-o'-summer morning, while on the
ear rose a deafening babel of voices from the hundreds of little Belgian
carts and carriages of all shapes and sizes and descriptions, that stood
there, with their drivers leaning forward over their skinny horses
yelling for fares.
The American hurried to me, as I stood watching with deep interest this
vivacious scene, which reminded me of some old piazza in Italy, and
quite took away the sharp edge of the adventure--the sharp edge being
the Germans, who now were not very far away, judging by the dull roar of
cannon that was here distinctly audible.
The American said: "Ma'am, I have found this little trap that will take
us to Brussels for fourteen francs--right into Brussels, and there is a
seat for you in that trap if you'd care to come. I'd be very pleased and
happy to have you come along with me!"
"It is awfully good of you!" I said.
I knew he was running great risks in taking me with him, and I deeply
appreciated his kindness.
But Jean remonstrated, a little hurt at the suggestion.
"Madame, you are of our party! We must stick together. I've just found a
trap here that will take us all. There are four other people already in
it, and that will make eight altogether. The driver will take us to
Brussels for twelve francs each, with an extra five francs, if we get
there safely!"
So I waved good-bye to the little cart with the friendly American, who
waved back, as he drove away into the sunlight, shouting, "Good luck!"
"_Good luck!_"
As I heard that deep-sounding English word come ringing across the
flagged old Brabant village, it was as though I realised its meaning for
the first time.
"Good luck!"
And my heart clutched at it, and clung to it, searching for strength, as
the heart of women--and men too--will do in war time!