He disappears into a back room to answer the telephone, but when he returns he does not impart his news to the gaping crowd. The little vicinal train puffs noisily down the street from its shed at the end of the village. The peasants of the 13th and 14th classes, called up to-day, climb in. They are very workmanlike in their dirty-white trousers, short belted coat, and “bonnet rond.” They carry necessaries in a small parcel. How I admire the plucky air of confidence on their manly faces as they lean over the side of the little car which is to take them down to the railway ... to Liège ... perhaps to God. They bend from the train to shake their relatives’ hands with something of the Commandant’s calm nonchalance. Matters are worse than I imagined. Men with pitchforks are even being called up to help guard the frontier. Too late! M. le Directeur is here in a khaki suit. The brave man. He is about to take dispatches. His motor-cycle needs petrol. The entire village hurls itself on the machine. We are all panting to be useful. “Doucement, doucement, mes braves gens. Ce n’est pas un Allemand.” (Quietly, my good people! I am not a German), he says, laughing. The spirit of the peasants obviously delights him. He breaks into a Walloon song. They all shout the chorus, beating time with their hands. Then he is off. One thing is decided on. The magnificent avenues of trees which line the undulating roads must be decimated to bar the route against the German troops. To keep them back a few days, a few hours, will be something. Already knots of villagers in wideawake hats and stout corduroys are stealing away, axe hooked to shoulder, lengths of rope coiled round their left arms. They look bored and indifferent, so I know they will work like demons. A bored-looking Belgian is a man to be feared.... Soon one hears the steady hack-hack, followed by a swirl and crash as some huge fir or oak falls prone across the great white road. There is something about the sound which makes one’s blood run cold. It comes as a foretaste of death. A car drives up with four busbied officers. The Belgian guides. The Commandant speaks to them a moment. They drive on. He re-enters the Gendarmerie, comes out a moment later, locks the door and casts a lingering, almost affectionate glance at the yellow, black and red flag floating proudly from the masthead. He is wondering, perhaps, if he will ever see it again. Mounting his horse, he waves his hand to the villagers, and is off on his sixty-mile ride to Arlon. Brave Commandant of the nonchalant mien, but not brave enough to face those last good-byes. How I feel for you!