Soon it came up to our knees, to our
waists.
"Hurry," shouted the old man at the tiller. "No time to spare!"
"Just a minute more," I answered, "only one minute!"
That minute seemed like a year. The sail of the boat was shaking
in the wind. When it filled she must move away. We waded on, and
at last I grasped the gunwale of the boat. I lifted the child in
and helped my wife to climb over the side. They clung to me. The
little vessel began to move gently away.
"Get in," cried the old man sharply; "get in quick."
But I felt that I could not, I dared not. I let go of the boat. I
cried "Good-by," and turned to wade ashore.
I was compelled to go back to the doomed city. I must know what
would come of the parting of Man from God!
The tide was running out more swiftly. The water swirled around my
knees. I awoke.
But the dream remained with me, just as I have told it to you.
ANTWERP ROAD
[OCTOBER, 1914]
Along the straight, glistening road, through a dim arcade of drooping
trees, a tunnel of faded green and gold, dripping with the misty
rain of a late October afternoon, a human tide was flowing, not
swiftly, but slowly, with the patient, pathetic slowness of weary
feet, and numb brains, and heavy hearts.
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