"MY SON!"
And now through the livid sunless silences of the deserted city, still
reeking horribly of powder, shrapnel, smoke and burning petroleum, the
Germans are coming down the Avenues to enter into possession.
Here they come, a long grey line of foot-soldiers and mounted men, all
with pink roses or carnations in their grey tunics.
Suddenly, a long, lidded, baker's cart dashes across the road at a
desperate rate, wheeled by a poor old Belgian, whose face is so wild,
that I whisper as she passes close to me:
"Is somebody ill in your cart?"
Without stopping, without looking even, her haggard eyes full of
despair, she mutters:
"_Dead!_ My son! He was a soldat."
Then she hurries on, at a run now, to find a spot where she can hide or
bury her beloved before the Germans are all over the city.