As we sat in chairs tilted against the wall and watched, we witnessed an
interesting little side play. At the first coming of the German
skirmishers the people of this quarter of the town had seemed stupefied
with amazement and astonishment. Most of them, it subsequently
developed, had believed right up to the last minute that the forts of
Liege still held out and that the Germans had not yet passed the
gateways of their country, many kilometers to the eastward. When the
scouts of the enemy appeared in their streets they fell for the moment
into a stunned state. A little later the appearance of a troop of
Uhlans had revived their resentment. We had heard that quick hiss and
snarl of hatred which sprang from them as the lancers trotted into view
on their superb mounts out of the mouth of a neighboring lane, and had
seen how instantaneously the dull, malignant gleam of gun metal, as a
sergeant pulled his pistol on them, had brought the silence of
frightened respect again.

It now appeared that realization of the number of the invaders was
breeding in the Belgians a placating spirit. If a soldier fell out of
line at the door of a house to ask for water, all within that house
strove to bring the water to him. If an officer, returning from a small
sortie into other streets, checked up to ask the way to rejoin his
command, a dozen eager arms waved in chorus to point out the proper
direction, and a babble of solicitous voices arose from the group about
his halted horse.

Young Belgian girls began smiling at soldiers swinging by and the
soldiers grinned back and waved their arms. You might almost have
thought the troops were Allies passing through a friendly community.
This phase of the plastic Flemish temperament made us marvel. When I