Kenneth pulled out his map. He was now able to form a fairly accurate idea of where he was. He had no desire to return. His anxiety concerning his chum urged him to make his way as quickly as possible to Louvain. There, at least, he might be able to gain information concerning the British dispatch-rider who ought to have reported himself to Major Foveneau. According to the map, Kenneth saw that there was a road to the left at a mile or so from where he stood. It struck the village of Winghe St. Georges, which was on the main road between Diest and Tirlemont and slightly nearer to the latter town. Springing into the saddle Kenneth set off at a furious pace. Ahead, but slightly to the right, was a dense column of smoke that marked the site of the destroyed village of Cortenaeken. Farther away were more pillars of black vapour, the handiwork of the vengeful invaders, whose principle was to terrorize the luckless Belgians into a spirit of non-resistance. The lad was heartily glad when he gained the branch road, since it led away from the desolated area. But before he had gone very far he became aware that he was crossing the tracks of a fighting force in retreat. Over the fields on either side and across the road were numerous deep ruts caused by wheels of artillery and service wagons. Here and there were abandoned carts, while half-buried in a muddy ditch was a field-piece with one wheel shattered. Its limber and several either dead or wounded horses still in the traces had overturned on the other side of the road. Yet, apart from the distant cannonade, there were no sounds of actual combat. Kenneth was sorely tempted to follow the tracks of the retirement. It would be hard going, he argued, but where a gun could go his motor-cycle ought to be able to follow. But on further consideration he decided to keep to the road, at least as far as Winghe St. Georges. Onwards he rode till he approached a ruined homestead. Four shattered walls, two gaunt gables, and a few scorched rafters were all that remained of the house. Surrounding it was a wall, broken in many places. Abutting on the wall were several roofless sheds. "Halte-là!" exclaimed a voice. "There is danger ahead." Kenneth pulled up sharply and, dismounting, looked in the direction from which the voice came. As he did so a man in the uniform of the Belgian lancers came out of the ruined house. He had lost his helmet, his coat was torn and covered with dust. Above his right knee was a blood-stained bandage. He was supporting himself by means of a rifle, using the weapon as a crutch with the butt under his armpit. "What has happened, comrade?" asked the lad. The soldier regarded him with evident suspicion. "You are not a Belgian," he said pointedly, "yet you are in the uniform of our dispatch-riders." "Quite so," replied Kenneth, producing his identification card. "I am a British subject in the Belgian service."