The Valley of Vision | Page 4

it, but they moved
heavily and feebly, as if some mortal illness lay upon them. Their faces
were pale and haggard with a helpless anxiety to escape more quickly.
The houses seemed half deserted. The shades were drawn, the doors
closed.
But since it was all so quiet, I thought that we might find some
temporary shelter there. So I knocked at the door of a house where
there was a dim light behind the drawn shade in one of the windows.
After a while the door was opened by a woman who held the end of her
shawl across her mouth. All that I could see was the black sorrow of
her eyes.
"Go away," she said slowly; "the plague is here. My children are dying
of it. You must not come in! Go away."
So we hurried on through that plague-smitten street, burdened with a
new fear. Soon we saw a house on the riverside which looked
absolutely empty. The shades were up, the windows open, the door
stood ajar. I hesitated; plucked up courage; resolved that we must get to
the waterside in some way in order to escape from the net of death
which encircled us.
"Come," I said, "let us try to go down through this house. But cover
your mouths."
We groped through the empty passageway, and down the
basement-stair. The thick cobwebs swept my face. I noted them with
joy, for I thought they proved that the house had been deserted for
some time, and so perhaps it might not be infected.
We descended into a room which seemed to have been the kitchen.
There was a stove dimly visible at one side, and an old broken kettle on
the floor, over which we stumbled. The back door was locked. But it
swung outward as I broke it open. We stood upon a narrow, dingy
beach, where the small waves were lapping.
By this time the "little day" had begun to whiten the eastern sky; a

pallid light was diffused; I could see westward down to the main harbor,
beside the heart of the city. The sails and smoke-stacks of great ships
were visible, all passing out to sea. I wished that we were there.
Here in front of us the water seemed shallower. It was probably only a
tributary or backwater of the main stream. But it was sprinkled with
smaller vessels--sloops, and yawls, and luggers--all filled with people
and slowly creeping seaward.
There was one little boat, quite near to us, which seemed to be waiting
for some one. There were some people on it, but it was not crowded.
"Come," I said, "this is for us. We must wade out to it."
So I took my wife by the hand, and the child in the other arm, and we
went into the water. 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.
Yet they were in haste, all of these old men and women, fathers and

mothers, and little children; they were flying as fast as they could;
either away from something that they feared, or toward something that
they desired.
That was the strange thing--the tide on the road flowed in two
directions.
Some fled away from ruined homes to escape the perils of war. Some
fled back to ruined homes to escape the desolation of exile. But all
were fugitives, anxious to be gone, striving along the road one way or
the