The soldiers ride grumbling away. Kind Brandenburgers! Hardly has the noise of the horses’ hoofs died down than the ear is assailed by new and more terrifying sounds. At first it is a mere rumbling noise as of great carts creaking heavily along the high road from Vielsalm. Nearer it comes. It might be a procession of traction engines. Now it is like one continuous clap of thunder. As it rounds the bend from Malempré the noise is positively deafening. I put my head out of the window. I can see nothing but vast grey, indeterminate forms, heralded by what I imagine are rows of innumerable horses. If only the darkness would lift and one could see a little. These awful cargoes turn off by the Gendarmerie in the direction of Namur. The noise is like hell let loose. It does not require much imagination to picture them as great siege guns being slipped through to Namur under cover of the night.... THE PLOT THICKENS At four o’clock in the morning I hear the familiar cry of “Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle.” I am ready dressed in my Connemara tweed suit. I rush out. The Job-Lepouses are hanging out of a back bedroom window. They are bordering on frenzy at the sight of some Hussars endeavouring to seize their horse and cart. They implore me to stop the Germans committing such a theft. How can I prevent these armed men from stealing the entire village if they wish? Rather a thankless task from my point of view. However, I go into the yard and translate the wishes of the Job-Lepouse family into very careful German, adding a bitter comment of my own. “It’s only for a quarter of an hour, Fräulein,” they say sullenly, still harnessing the horse. “Have you orders?” Silence. Obviously they have no orders.... More soldiers are heard in the street. An orderly rushes into the yard. “The army is coming,” he says. The men leave the horse and cart and hasten away. The orderly turns to us and asks for food. We bring out a few vegetables. He pays with German money and the usual parrot cry of satisfied complacency, “Alles wird bezahlt.” He repeats again, “The army is coming.” I ask, “Who are commanding?” He replies, “All are here, all, all.” Then as an afterthought—“Except the Crown Prince. He is at Belfort.” “Wounded?” I ask. The rumour has even reached us here. “No more than you nor me,” says the orderly as he goes smiling away. This is quite a morning of excitements. We now have a General with his aide-de-camp “drying” in the kitchen. They have been caught in an early morning downpour. I wish the raindrops had been bullets! Every now and again as the door opens I see him, standing by the stove, one hand covering Madame Job with his revolver, the other applied to his back to see his clothes don’t scorch.