"Daylight was fading in the city of Antwerp. Down into the sea sank
the sun, tinting the vast horizon with flakes of crimson, and touching
with rich deep undertones the tossing waters of the Scheldt. Its glow
fell like a rosy mantle over red-tiled roofs and meadows; and through
the haze the spires of twenty churches pierced the air like sharp,
gilded flames. To the west and south the green plains, over which the
Spanish armies tramped so long ago, stretched away until they met the
sky; the enchantment of the after-glow had turned old Antwerp into
fairy-land; and sea and sky and plain were beautiful and vague as the
night-mists floating in the moats below.

"Along the sea-wall from the Rubens Gate all Antwerp strolled, and
chattered, and flirted, and sipped their Flemish wines from slender
Flemish glasses, or gossiped over krugs of foaming beer.

"From the Scheldt came the cries of sailors, the creaking of cordage,
and the puff! puff! of the ferry-boats. On the bastions of the
fortress opposite, a bugler was standing. Twice the mellow notes of
the bugle came faintly over the water, then a great gun thundered from
the ramparts, and the Belgian flag fluttered along the lanyards to the
ground.

"I leaned listlessly on the sea-wall and looked down at the Scheldt
below. A battery of artillery was embarking for the fortress. The
tublike transport lay hissing and whistling in the slip, and the
stamping of horses, the rumbling of gun and caisson, and the sharp
cries of the officers came plainly to the ear.