The next morning dawned bright and clear, and Mother Van Hove and the
Twins went about their work as usual. The sunshine was so bright, and
the whole countryside looked so peaceful and fair, it was impossible to
believe that the terrors of the night could be true.
"To-day we must begin to gather the potatoes," said Mother Van Hove
after breakfast. "Jan, you get the fork and hoe and put them in the
wagon, while I milk the cow and Marie puts up some bread and cheese for
us to take to the field." She started across the road to the pasture,
with Fidel at her heels, as she spoke. In an instant she was back
again, her eyes wide with horror. "Look! Look!" she cried.
The dazed children looked toward the east as she pointed. There in the
distance, advancing like a great tidal wave, was a long gray line of
soldiers on horseback. Already they could hear the sound of music and
the throb of drums; already the sun glistened upon the shining helmets
and the cruel points of bayonets. The host stretched away across the
plain as far as the eye could reach, and behind them the sky was thick
with the smoke of fires.
"The church! the church!" cried Mother Van Hove. "No, there is not
time. Hide in here, my darlings. Quickly! Quickly!"
She tore open the door of the earth-covered vegetable cellar as she
spoke, and thrust Jan and Marie inside. Fidel bolted in after them. "Do
not move or make a sound until all is quiet again," she cried as she
closed the door.
There was not room for her too, in the cellar, and if there had been,
Mother Van Hove would not have taken it, for it was necessary to close
the door from the outside. This she did, hastily, throwing some straw
before it. Then she rushed into the house and, snatching up her shining
milk-pans, flung them upon the straw, as if they were placed there to
be sweetened by the sun. No one would think to look under a pile of
pans for hidden Belgians, she felt sure.
Nearer and nearer came the hosts, and now she could hear the sound of
singing as from ten thousand brazen throats, "Deutschland, Deutschland
uber Alles," roared the mighty chorus, and in another moment the little
village of Meer was submerged in the terrible gray flood.
At last, after what seemed to the imprisoned children like a year of
darkness and dread, and of strange, terrifying noises of all kinds, the
sound of horses' hoofs and marching feet died away in the distance, and
Jan ventured to push open the door of the cavern a crack, just
intending to peep out. Immediately there was a crash of falling
tinware. Jan quickly drew back again into the safe darkness and waited.
As nothing further happened, he peeped out again. This time Fidel,
springing forward, flung the doors wide open, and dashed out into the
sunshine with a joyous bark.
In a moment more Jan and Marie also crawled out of their hiding-place
after him. For an instant, as they came out into the daylight, it
seemed to the children as if they had awakened from a dreadful dream.
There stood the farmhouse just as before, with the kitchen door wide
open and the sun streaming in upon the sanded floor. There were only
the marks of many feet in the soft earth of the farmyard, an empty
pigpen, and a few chicken feathers blowing about the hen house, to show
where the invaders had been and what they had carried away with them.
Jan and Marie, followed by Fidel, ran through the house. From the front
door, which opened on the road; they could see the long gray line
sweeping across the fields toward Malines.
"The storm has passed," cried Marie, sobbing with grief, "just as
Mynheer Pastoor said it would! Mother! Mother, where are you?" They ran
from kitchen to bedroom and back again, their terror increasing at
every step, as no voice answered their call. They searched the cellar
and the loft; they looked in the stable and barn, and even in the
dog-house. Their mother was nowhere to be found!
"I know where she must be," cried Jan, at last. "You know Mynheer
Pastoor said, if anything happened, we should hide in the church." Led
by this hope, the two children sped, hand in hand, toward the village.
"Bel is gone!" gasped Jan, as they passed the pasture bars. "Pier,
too," sobbed Marie. Down the whole length of the deserted village
street they flew, with Fidel following close at their heels. When they
came to the little church, they burst open the door and looked in. The
cheerful sun streamed through the windows, falling in brilliant patches
of light upon the floor, but the church was silent and empty. It was
some time before they could realize that there was not a human being
but themselves in the entire village; all the others had been driven
away like sheep, before the invading army. When at last the terrible
truth dawned upon them, the two frightened children sat down upon the
church steps in the silence, and clung, weeping, to each other. Fidel
whined and licked their hands, as though he, too, understood and felt
their loneliness.
"What shall we do? What shall we do?" moaned Marie.
"There's nobody to tell us what to do," sobbed Jan. "We must just do
the best we can by ourselves."
"We can't stay here alone!" said Marie.
"But where can we go?" cried Jan. "There's no place for us to go to!"
For a few minutes the two children wept their hearts out in utter
despair, but hope always comes when it is most needed, and soon Marie
raised her head and wiped her eyes.
"Don't you remember what Mother said when she put the locket on my
neck, Jan?" she asked. "She said that she would find us, even if she
had to swim the sea! She said no matter what happened we should never
despair, and here we are despairing as hard as ever we can."
Jan threw up his chin, and straightened his back. "Yes," he said,
swallowing his sobs, "and she said I was now a man and must take care
of myself and you."
"What shall we do, then?" asked Marie.
Jan thought hard for a moment. Then he said: "Eat! It must be late, and
we have not had a mouthful to-day."