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ANTWERP THE DAY AFTER ITS FALL 229
pleasant custom, the soldiers had adorned their rifles with
little sprays of flowers, and their faces shone as usual with
cheerful determination and high spirits.
Once more we looked in at a chateau by the roadside. I
shall never forget the impressions which thronged into my
mind as I wandered through its dim, desolate rooms. In the
bedrooms and guest-rooms on the first floor the beds were
still in the state in which the masters of the house and their
guests had left them. Quilts and sheets had been pulled
aside, towels carelessly slung across the backs of chairs and
basins were still half-full of dirty water with the pieces of soap
beside them, stuck to their dishes. On the ground floor was
the large, lordly-looking dining-room. The table was laid.
A large dish still contained the remnants of the course last
served, an omelette. Some ten persons evidently had par-
taken of the meal. Some plates were empty, others still con-
tained scraps of omelette. Knives and forks lay pell-mell
among the bits of bread by the side of the covers. A couple of
empty champagne bottles stood on the table, whilst a third
still contained a few drops of the joyous wine, which had now
lost its sparkling freshness. A few serviettes lay crumpled on
the table, others on the chairs and a couple had dropped on
to the floor. Everything testified to a hasty and panic-stricken
departure. Perhaps the thunderous music of the guns had
come unpleasantly near, or maybe a shell had dropped close
by ? Or perhaps a messenger had dashed in to report that the
Germans had punctured the outer girdle of forts and were
now rushing in through the opening ? Who were the guests,
I wondered, whose meal had been so unceremoniously dis-
turbed ? Was it the people of the house themselves, who had
waited until the last moment, or was it officers spending the
night there on their retreat ?
The chateau was dead and deserted. One heard no sounds
but the hollow echo of one’s steps and now and then the
creaking of the furniture. Yet in the hall, on the ground
floor, we found a living being—a white dove—it sat alone and
frozen on a table. The white dove is the symbol of innocence
and purity, of divine sanctity, but here it seemed curiously
out of place. Yet the open window did not tempt it to seek
the liberty of the chateau grounds.
At another villa the grounds had been occupied by a column
of open ammunition carts containing Belgian shells with the
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