a rear guard, with his gun swung over his back and his sweaty black hair
hanging down in his eyes.

In an undertone he was apparently explaining something to a little
bow-legged man in black, with spectacles, who trudged along in his
company. He was the lone soldier we saw among the refugees--all the
others were civilians.

Only one man in all the line hailed us. Speaking so low that we could
scarcely catch his words, he said in broken English:

"M'sieurs, the French are in Brussels, are they not?"

"No," we told him.

"The British, then--they must be there by now?"

"No; the British aren't there, either."

He shook his head, as though puzzled, and started on.

"How far away are the Germans?" we asked him.

He shook his head again. "I cannot say," he answered; "but I think they
must be close behind us. I had a brother in the army at Liege," he
added, apparently apropos of nothing. And then he went on, still
shaking his head and with both arms tightly clasped round a big bundle
done up in cloth, which he held against his breast.

Very suddenly the procession broke off, as though it had been chopped in