Bartek felt that his wife spoke the truth. He feared the French like fire, and was sorry for himself on this account. What had the French done to him? What was he going after there,--why was he going to that horrible strange land where not a single friendly soul was to be found? He knew what life at Pognębin was like,--well, it was neither easy nor difficult, but just such as it was. But now he was being told to go away, although he knew that it was better to be here than anywhere else. Still, there was no help for it;--such is fate. Bartek embraced his wife, and the ten-year old Franek; spat, crossed himself, and went out of the cottage, Magda following him. They did not take very tender leave of one another. They both sobbed, he repeating, 'Come, come, hush!' and went out into the road. There they realized that the same thing which had happened to them had happened to all Pognębin, for the whole village was astir, and the road was obstructed by traffic. As they walked to the station, women, children, old men and dogs followed them. Everyone's heart was heavy; but a few smoked their pipes with an air of indifference, and some were already intoxicated. Others were singing with hoarse voices: 'Skrzynecki[4] died, alas! No more his voice is heard; His hand, bedeckt with rings, No more shall wield the sword,' while one or two of the Germans from Pognębin sang 'Die Wacht am Rhein' out of sheer fright. All that motley and many-coloured crowd,--including policemen with glittering bayonets,--moved in file towards the end of the village with shouts, bustle, and confusion. Women clung to their 'warriors'' necks and wept; one old woman showed her yellow teeth and waved her arms in the air; another cried: 'May the Lord remember our tears!' There were cries of: 'Franek! Kaśka! Józek! good-bye!' Dogs barked, the church bell rang, the priest even said the prayers for the dying, since not one of those now going to the station would return. The war had claimed them all, but the war would not give them back. The plough would grow rusty in the field, for Pognębin had declared war against the French. Pognębin could not acquiesce in the supremacy of Napoleon III, and took to heart the question of the Spanish succession. The last sounds of the bell hovered over the crowd, which was already falling out of line. Heads were bared as they passed the shrine. The light dust rose up from the road, for the day was dry and fine. Along both sides of the road the ripening corn, heavy in the ear, rustled and bowed in the gentle gusts of wind. The larks were twittering in the blue sky, and each warbled as if fearing he might be forgotten.