The Uhlans are certainly a queer lot. We have ample opportunities of studying them, as they are for ever pushing forward, on their mission of patrolling the countryside. No sooner have we become accustomed to one troop and may congratulate ourselves our lives are safe, than another arrives to take its place. Sometimes they return in the evening, half without horses, or with the full complement of horses but the riders gone. Of one patrol which went out scouting yesterday to Laroche, only the officer came back. Someone informed the French cavalry at a village near, and they cunningly laid an ambuscade in the wood at Samrée and cut them off. The greeny-grey uniform saved the German officer. He threw himself flat in the pine dust and managed to escape and make his way back to Manhay, footsore and weary. I saw him sitting on the bank by the roadside near the village last night, writing a letter to his mother. He was little more than a lad. “I shall never see her again,” he said, crying. No more he will. He was killed to-day.... The Germans, though brave, seem inferior to the French in their scouting methods. Time and again small French patrols would cut them off, exercising superior finesse. One day in a skirmish outside the village, however, the Uhlans beat the French. An officer was triumphantly borne away prisoner to Werboumont. How thrilled we were at the sight of the culotte rouge. If there had only been more of them and free! No one speaks of the men in skirts any more. The continuous stream of trains that was carrying the Highlanders into Liège have gone the way of all myths. The enthusiasm for the English is slightly on the wane. “They ought to come soon,” the peasants mutter discontentedly. “Without doubt they have their plan of campaign,” says little M. Job, who is always trusting. Early morning and late at night is the time when we have the Uhlans mostly with us. It is nothing for them to call at 6 a.m. for breakfast, and they arrive in boisterous spirits (when they have suffered no losses) and call for beer at night. They seem to have an extraordinary love for music—or noise. They do not know in the least what they are going to war about, but most of them ask for a piano. The wheezy hotel gramophone affords them sheer delight. They must make music to-day if they die to-morrow. “À Paris, à Paris!” is the cry of the more enthusiastic, but “I’d rather be at home” is the qualifying statement of not a few. One soldier confesses he feels the cord tightening round his neck each day. “Every advance means more danger,” says another gloomily. A third shows me his cartridge case. “Four for the enemy, one for the Kaiser,” is his pithy comment. There is an infectious air of gaiety about the frontier-sheltered lads, which is lacking in those who have once been shot over. As for the men with sad faces, it is enough to see their hands. They usually wear a wedding ring on the third finger.