These were the ones that were going, and almost the last of the dreary pageant disappeared as McDermott watched. But those who stayed astonished him even more by their strange actions and uncouth postures. “Don't tell me,” mumbled McDermott, rubbing his scar, “that all thim sojers is aslape!” But asleep they were. To the east and to the north the world was one rip and rat-a-tat of rifle and machine-gun fire--how near, McDermott could not guess--and over the village whined and droned the shells, of great or lesser caliber; here was one gate to a hell of noise, and the buildings stirred and the budding vines in the courtyards moved and the dust itself was agitated with the breath and blast of far and near concussions; but yet the big open Place itself was held in the grip of a grotesque and incredible slumber. Sprawled in the gutters, collapsed across the doorsills, leaning against the walls, slept that portion of the British army; slept strangely, without snoring. In the middle of the Grande Place there was a young lieutenant bending forward across the wreck of a motor car; he had tried to pluck forth a basket from the tonneau and sleep had touched him with his fingers on the handle. And from the eastern fringes of the village there entered the square, as actors enter upon a stage, a group of a dozen men, with their arms linked together, swaying and dazed and stumbling. At first McDermott thought that wounded were being helped from the field. But these men were not wounded; they were walking in their sleep, and the group fell apart, as McDermott looked at them, and sank severally to the cobblestones. Scotchmen, Canadians, English, torn and battered remnants of many different commands, they had striven with their guns and bodies for more than a week to dam the vast, rising wave of the German attack--day melting into night and night burning into day again, till there was no such thing as time to them any longer; there were but two things in the world, battle and weariness, weariness and battle. McDermott moved across the square unchallenged. He had eaten and slept but little for two days himself, and he made instinctively for the open door of an empty inn, to search for food. In the doorway he stumbled across a lad who roused and spoke to him. “Jack,” said the boy, looking at him with red eyes out of an old, worn face, “have you got the makin's?” He was in a ragged and muddied Canadian uniform, but McDermott guessed that he was an American. “I have that,” said McDermott, producing papers and tobacco. But the boy had lapsed into slumber again. McDermott rolled the cigarette for him, placed it between his lips, waked him and lighted it for him. The boy took a puff or two, and then said dreamily: “And what the hell are you doin' here with them blue overalls on?” “I come to look at the war,” said McDermott.