For an instant Stewart stood there, staring back at the cloud of smoke above the burning village; then he dropped into the seat and turned to say good-by to the gallant fellow who had proved so true a friend. The little soldier was standing with heels together, head thrown back, hand at the visor of his cap. "_Monsieur!_" he said, simply, as his eyes met Stewart's, and then the car started. Stewart looked back through a mist of tears, and waved his hand to that martial little figure, so hopeful and indomitable. Should he ever see that gallant friend again? Chance was all against it. An hour hence, he might be lying in the road, a bullet through his heart; if not an hour hence, then to-morrow or next day. And before this war was over, how many others would be lying so, arms flung wide, eyes staring at the sky--just as those young Germans had lain back yonder! He thrust such thoughts away. They were too bitter, too terrible. But as his vision cleared, he saw on every hand the evidence of war's desolation. The road was thronged with fugitives--old men, women, and children--fleeing westward away from their ruined homes, away from the plague which was devastating their land. Their faces were vacant with despair, or wet with silent tears. For whither could they flee? Where could they hope for food and shelter? How could their journey end, save at the goal of death? The car threaded its way slowly among these heart-broken people, passed through silent and deserted villages, by fields of grain that would never be harvested, along quiet streams which would soon be red with blood; and at last it came to St. Trond, and stopped before the town-hall, from whose beautiful old belfry floated the Belgian flag. "If you will wait here, sir," said the officer, and jumped to the pavement and hurried up the steps. So Stewart waited, an object of much curiosity to the passing crowd. Other cars dashed up from time to time, officers jumped out with reports, jumped in again with orders and dashed away. Plainly, Belgium was not dismayed even in face of this great invasion. She was fighting coolly, intelligently, with her whole strength. And then an officer came down the steps, sprang to the footboard of the machine, and looked at Stewart. "I am told you have a message," he said. "Yes." "I am a member of the French staff. Can you deliver it to me?" "I was told to deliver it only to General Joffre." "Ah! in that case----" The officer caught his lower lip between the thumb and little finger of his left hand, as if in perplexity. So naturally was it done that for an instant Stewart did not recognize the sign; then, hastily, he passed his left hand across his eyes. The officer looked at him keenly. "Have we not met before?" he asked. "In Berlin; on the twenty-second," Stewart answered. The officer's face cleared, and he stepped over the door into the tonneau.