The day wears on. Already the end of the high road where it turns to Malempré is piled high with trees. The Noah’s-ark firs on the highway to Bomale have come toppling down like ninepins. My thoughts turn to weapons. I never dream for an instant but that the peasants will fight the common enemy from behind those bulwark barricades. It seems the only natural and proper thing to do. I know nothing of the duties of non-combatants. A man from a neighbouring village drives up in his cart. He gets down and feeds his horse with hunks of black bread which he tears from the loaf. I feel ashamed not to be armed. He may help. I approach him. “Have you a spare rifle?” I ask wistfully. He stares at me stupidly. “A rifle? No,” he says. “Why?” “I could help to shoot the Germans,” I suggest. “It’s a pity,” he answers, and his mouth twists in a grin as he turns back to feed his horse. I have never held a rifle in my hands. But I feel convinced that the mere sight of a loathsome Teuton would make the most difficult and antiquated weapon go off of its own accord. Madame Job’s little girl, Rosa, was sent back from Liège some days ago. The school is turned into a hospital, and the good nuns are acting as nurses for the wounded. Rosa’s German fellow-pupils are left behind. They will presently enjoy the novel sensation of being shelled by their own countrymen. Rosa runs about the house like an elf and sings. For a pupil of the Sisters at the Orphelinat de St. Joseph she is very lively. Youth has the happy knack of living in the present. She and Louisa take it in turns to act at “Prussien,” the fashionable game. They submit with a good grace to be chased and well thumped on capture by Victor and René, the aubergiste’s son. To-night we all sit out on the _terrasse_ at the little white tables. The whole family are here. M. and Mme Job-Lepouse, Floribert, Alfred, Louisa, Irma, and Rosa. M. le Précepteur and his wife come over from the post office. The postman and the picturesque poacher lounge against the wall. In the distance the old Maids of Manhay are enjoying their evening chase after the elusive pig, and the skeleton dog is giving a series of infuriated yaps at his own enforced detention. The fair unknown comes out of the red doll’s house opposite and waters the _rosier_ with rather tremulous grace. This will be our last night of peace.... HOW THE UHLANS CAME “It never rains but it pours,” is as true of the Ardennes as of more distant lands. It has been pouring all night. It is pouring now. In the silence between the pitiless showers, we can hear the roar of the siege guns already bombarding Liège. More trees have been cut down during the dark hours. A great wall of wood bars the road opposite the Gendarmerie leading to Vaux Chavannes. Numberless recumbent tree-trunks are making great dark tracks across the long and tortuous route towards the frontier. We have done our share. We can but wait events.