Max was dressed exactly as he was when he gave himself up. He had had no opportunity to wash or to make himself presentable for that last hour; unkempt, bareheaded, but erect and outwardly serene, he strode along, conscious that he was not only an example from the German point of view, but an example, and a greater one, to the Belgians. He tried to tell himself that the unscrupulousness of the Germans should not have the effect they desired, that his execution should be a rallying-point for all true hearts in Liege and a turning-point so far as their little locality was concerned. But though Max was outwardly calm and serene, inwardly he was deeply anguished. It was not a small thing to him to lay down, so to speak, his tools and to leave to others the continuance of the good work. His mother and sister, too--he could not think of them without many and bitter pangs. However, he strove hard to hold at bay such thoughts and to go down strongly to the parting of the ways. With monotonous tramp his escort marched unmoved along. Max marched in the middle, unbound like a prisoner of war rather than the miscreant he had been called. Once away from the governor's palace the people were sparse--ones and twos and a few groups here and there--until the gates of the Durend works came in sight. Here there was a larger crowd. There always was a small crowd about the gates, for the number of Belgians who still refused to work was considerable, and these men passed much of their time outside, gloomily scanning the many evidences of abounding work, and discussing in low tones the progress of the war. It wanted only twenty minutes to noon, and at that hour Max knew he would take his last look upon the things of this world. It was hard, he could not help thinking, but---- "_Get ready!_" Those words, spoken in English, sounded in his ears. They seemed uttered in the sing-song tones he knew so well, in which the starter of a rowing contest prepared to send off the crews waiting in eager readiness before him. Max looked curiously about him. He knew he must be dreaming, and yet he had not been conscious at that moment of dreaming of the old days at Hawkesley. How far away they seemed--and how jolly--he would never know such glorious times again. A fresh wave of new regrets passed through his mind. It was---- "_Are you ready?_" This time Max looked more sharply about him. He was not dreaming, he was sure now. The words had certainly been uttered, and again in the sing-song of the Hawkesley starter. No one but Dale could have uttered them, and Dale it must be. Where was he? A man carrying a big packing-case was at the side of the road on his right a dozen yards or so ahead. The packing-case hid his face, but his gait seemed somewhat familiar even while moving under his burden. He was slanting towards the prisoner's escort, the foremost of whom had now reached the outer edge of the big crowd assembled outside the gates.