We were starting early next day--before dawn--to see the beginning of another battle. We walked slowly over the little iron bridge again, through the vegetable market, where old men and women were unloading cabbages from a big wagon, then into the dark tunnel of the rue des Augustins, and so to the little old mansion of Mme. de la Rochefoucauld in the rue Amiral Courbet. There was a light burning in the window of the censor's room. In there the colonel was reading The Times in the Louis Quinze salon, with a grave pucker on his high, thin forehead. He could not get any grasp of the world's events. There was an attack on the censor by Northcliffe. Now what did he mean by that? It was really very unkind of him, after so much civility to him. Charteris would be furious. He would bang the telephone--but--dear, dear, why should people be so violent? War correspondents were violent on the slightest provocation. The world itself was very violent. And it was all so dangerous. Don't you think so, Russell? The cars were ordered for five o'clock. Time for bed. XI The night in Amiens was dark and sinister when rain fell heavily out of a moonless sky. Hardly a torch-lamp flashed out except where a solitary woman scurried down the wet streets to lonely rooms. There were no British officers strolling about. They had turned in early, to hot baths and unaccustomed beds, except for one or two, with their burberries buttoned tight at the throat, and sopping field-caps pulled down about the ears, and top--boots which went splash, splash through deep puddles as they staggered a little uncertainly and peered up at dark corners to find their whereabouts, by a dim sense of locality and the shapes of the houses. The rain pattered sharply on the pavements and beat a tattoo on leaden gutters and slate roofs. Every window was shuttered and no light gleamed through. On such a night I went out with Beach Thomas, as often before, wet or fine, after hard writing. “A foul night,” said Thomas, setting off in his quick, jerky step. “I like to feel the rain on my face.” We turned down as usual to the river. It was very dark--the rain was heavy on the quayside, where there was a group of people bareheaded in the rain and chattering in French, with gusts of laughter. “Une bouteille de champagne!” The words were spoken in a clear boy's voice, with an elaborate caricature of French accent, in musical cadence, but unmistakably English. “A drunken officer,” said Thomas. “Poor devil!” We drew near among the people and saw a young officer arm in arm with a French peasant--one of the market porters--telling a tale in broken French to the audience about him, with comic gesticulations and extraordinary volubility. A woman put her hand on my shoulder and spoke in French. “He has drunk too much bad wine. His legs walk away from him. He will be in trouble, Monsieur. And a child--no older than my own boy who is fighting in the Argonne.”