But my reception in Enghien should have warned me to get back to Brussels.

The Germans, thinking I was an English spy, scowled at me; and the Belgians, thinking the same thing, winked at me; and the landlord of the only hotel said I was "suspect" and would not give me a bed.

But I sought out the burgomaster, a most charming man named Delano, and he wrote out a pass permitting me to sleep one night in Enghien.
"You really do not need this," he said; "as an American you are free to stay here as long as you wish." Then he, too, winked.
"But I am an American," I protested.
"But certainly," he said gravely, and again he winked.

It was then I should have started back to Brussels.

Instead, I sat on a moss- covered, arched stone bridge that binds the town together, and until night fell watched the gray tidal waves rush up and across it, stamping, tripping, stumbling, beating the broad, clean stones with thousands of iron heels, steel hoofs, steel chains, and steel-rimmed wheels.