'Are you afraid?' Gwizdała asked. 'Why shouldn't I be afraid?' The crimson in the sky was growing deeper still, so Gwizdała pointed towards it and went on whispering: 'Do you see that brightness? Do you know, Blockhead, what that is? That's blood. Here's Poland,--our frontier, say,--do you understand? But there in the distance, where it's so bright, that's France itself.' 'And shall we be there soon?' 'Why are you in such a hurry? They say that it's a terribly long way. But never fear, the French will come out to meet us.' Bartek's Pognębin brain began to work laboriously. After some moments he asked: 'Wojtek.' 'Yes?' 'What sort of people are these Frenchmen?' Here Wojtek's wisdom suddenly became aware of a pitfall into which it might be easier to tumble headforemost than to come out again. He knew that the French were the French. He had heard something about them from old people, who had related that they were always fighting with everyone; he knew at least that they were very strange people. But how could he explain this to Bartek to make him understand how strange they were? First of all, therefore, he repeated the question, 'What sort of people?' 'Why, yes.' Now there were three nations known to Wojtek: living in the centre were the Poles; on the one side were the Russians, on the other the Germans. But there were various kinds of Germans. Preferring, therefore, to be clear rather than accurate, he said: 'What sort of people are the French? How can I tell you; they must be like the Germans, only worse.' At which Bartek exclaimed: 'Oh, the low vermin!' Up to that time he had had one feeling only with regard to the French, and that was a feeling of unspeakable fear. Henceforth this Prussian Reservist cherished the hatred of a true patriot towards them. But not feeling quite clear about it all, he asked again: 'Then Germans will be fighting Germans?' Here Wojtek, like a second Socrates, chose to adopt a simile, and answered: 'But doesn't your dog, Łysek, fight with my Burek?' Bartek opened his mouth and looked at his instructor for a moment: 'Ah! true.' 'And the Austrians are Germans,' explained Wojtek, 'and haven't they fought against us? Old Swierzcz said that when he was in that war Steinmetz used to shout: "On, boys, at the Germans!" Only that's not so easy with the French.' 'Good God!' 'The French have never been beaten in any war. When they attack you, don't be afraid, don't disgrace yourself. Each man is worth two or three of us, and they wear beards like Jews. There are some as dark as the devil. Now that you know what they are like, commend yourself to God!' 'Well, but then why do we run after them?' Bartek asked in desperation. This philosophical remark was possibly not as stupid as it appeared to Wojtek, who, evidently influenced by official opinion, quickly had his answer ready.