During the next days, news poured in from Ypres. At one time, we heard that the Germans had been repulsed, and their guns captured, and that Ypres would soon be quite safe again; shortly afterwards, it was announced that the enemy was mercilessly bombarding the town, some houses were falling, others burning. We were more than ever convinced that we could believe nothing that we heard and must necessarily see for ourselves. Besides, the guns which we had only heard feebly in the distance, on our arrival at Poperinghe, could certainly be heard far more distinctly now; were we going to be bombarded a second time? It really seemed probable, for German aeroplanes appeared in sight, apparently scrutinising the movements of the Allies, and had not that been the beginning of the hostilities at Ypres? In the streets, the regiments passed and repassed--the poor, brave fellows marching off to the battle, and the others coming back from the trenches to have a well-merited repose. It was often touching to see how those who had not been ordered out would await the return of the troops, anxiously scanning the lines as they passed, and on perceiving a comrade, perhaps a ‘chum,’ coming back unhurt, they would run forward and give a hand-shake with a joyful greeting, as the horses trotted by. But alas! there were always a number of empty saddles, belonging to those who had been taken to the ambulance, or--worse still--left dead on the battle-field. The horses themselves seemed mournful, as they followed mechanically after the others, as though they felt it must be partially their fault that their dear masters were no longer there. Often, also, numbers of German prisoners would march past between two files of British or French soldiers on their way to the station.