The night, like the preceding, was calm and quiet, without a breath of
wind. On all sides rose greedy tongues of flame which seemed to
thirst for things beyond their reach. Slowly and majestically the sparks
floated skyward; and every now and then, following the explosion of a
shell, a new burst of flame lighted up a section hitherto hidden in
darkness. The window panes of the houses still untouched flashed
the reflection in our eyes.

Even more glorious was the scene to the north. On the opposite side
of the Scheldt the oil tanks, the first objects to be set on fire by bombs
from the German Taubes, were blazing furiously and vomiting huge
volumes of oil-laden smoke. Looking over on this side of the river,
too, I could see the crackling wooden houses of the village of St.
Nicolas, lighting with their glow all of northern Antwerp and the
water-front. In the swampy meadows on the farther bank we could see the
frightened refugees as they hurried along the still protected road to
Ghent. They passed on our side of the burning village, not five
hundred yards away. Every now and then as a fitful flame lighted the
meadow I could see the figures silhouetted against the red
background.

They appeared to be actually walking through the flames like
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. It was all a glorious and
fascinating nightmare.

There was at this time an ominous lull in the moaning pound of
shrapnel.

Out of the darkness in the direction of West Antwerp came a new