The last I saw of Belgium was when I skirted her northern frontier, making for the seacoast.  The guns were silent now, for Antwerp had surrendered; and over all the roads leading up into Holland refugees were pouring in winding streams.  They were such refugees as I had seen a score of times before, only now there were infinitely more of them than ever before:  men, women and children, all afoot; all burdened with bags and bundles; all dressed in their best clothes—­they did well to save their best, since they could save so little else—­all or nearly all bearing their inevitable black umbrellas.

They must have come long distances; but I marked that none of them moaned or complained, or gave up in weariness and despair.  They went on and on, with their weary backs bent to their burdens and their weary legs trembling under them; and we did not know where they were going—­ and they did not know.  They just went.  What they must face before them could not equal what they left behind them; so they went on.

That poor little rag doll, with its head crushed in the wheel tracks, does not after all furnish such a good comparison for Belgium, I think, as I finish this tale; for it had sawdust insides—­and Belgium’s vitals are the vitals of courage and patience.