Bobby remembered how pale and haggard he had looked and how his hand had by the merest instinct clutched at the saddle-bow, and then had dropped away from it--helpless and inert. Now he lay quite still with his head resting against Bobby's shoulder. Under the trees it was cool and the air was sweet and soothing: Bobby with his left hand contrived to tear a handful of leaves from the coppice as he passed: they were full of moisture and he pressed them against Maurice's lips and against his own. The forest was full of sounds: of running men and horses, the rattle of wheels, and the calls of terror and of pain, with still and always that awesome background of persistent cannonade. But Bobby heard nothing, saw nothing save the narrow track in front of him, along which the horse now ambled leisurely, and from time to time--when he looked down--the pale, haggard face of the man whom Crystal loved. At one moment Maurice opened his eyes and murmured feebly: "Where am I?" "On the way to Brussels," Bobby contrived to reply. A little later on horse and rider emerged out of the wood and the Brussels road stretched out its long straight ribbon before Bobby Clyffurde's dull, uncomprehending gaze. Close by at his feet the milestone marked the last six kilomètres to Brussels. Only another half-dozen kilomètres--only another hour's ride at most! . . . Only!!! . . . when even now he felt that the next few minutes must see him tumbling head-foremost from the saddle. Far away beyond the milestone on his right--in a meadow, the boundary of which touched the edge of the wood--women were busy tossing hay after the rain, all unconscious of the simple little tragedy that was being enacted so close to them: their cotton dresses and the kerchiefs round their heads stood out as trenchant, vivid notes of colour against the dull grey landscape beyond. A couple of haycarts were standing by: beside them two men were lighting their pipes. The wind was playing with the hay as the women tossed it, and their shrill laughter came echoing across the meadow. And even now the ground was shaken with the repercussion of distant volleys of artillery, and along the road a stream of men were running toward Brussels, horses galloped by frightened and riderless, or dragging broken gun-carriages behind them in the mud. The whole of that stream was carrying the news of Wellington's disaster to Brussels and to Ghent: not knowing that behind them had already sounded the passing bell for the Empire of France.