Fowler hesitated, feeling like an intruder, but the figure insisted upon
leading him upstairs. When they got into the light, Fowler turned to
examine his kind friend. To his utter astonishment he saw that it was
Albert, King of the Belgians!

By that time we of Antwerp were getting a very fair imitation of a city
besieged. Water supply had already been cut off for some days.
There was just enough for cooking purposes; bathing and such
pleasantries were out of the question--even for Royalty. According
to the French maid in my corridor, Winston Churchill managed to get
a shave by ordering tea sent to his room and using the hot water for
shaving lather.

Monday, October 5th, the night before the city emptied itself of
non-combatants, was almost a festive occasion at the St. Antoine. The
British entry gave tremendous confidence to the stricken city and the
tired Belgian soldiers--a bit of pride before the fall. New faces turned
up, friends in the English army met, shook hands, and discussed the
outlook. One was even reminded of lighter occasions, such as the
Copley-Plaza in Boston or the Hotel Taft in New Haven before an
annual Harvard-Yale battle. At the head of a long table in the center
of the dining-room sat the First Lord of the British Admiralty, looking
rather thoughtful, his baldish head and Trinity House uniform standing
out in contrast to the service uniforms of the younger men around
him. At the same table were commissary officers, sergeants,
aide-de-camps, Hugh Gibson, Harold Fowler, and somewhat farther down the
Russian Minister and my curly-headed officer, chatting over his coffee
with little Princess de Ligne.

In the flash of an eye these scenes changed to scenes of terror.