building a steel bridge which seemed to be a hurried but
remarkable piece of engineering. It was replacing the old structure
which had been dynamited by the Belgians, and which now lay a
tangled mass of wreckage in the river.

For the next eight miles to Jupilles the country was quite as much
alive as the first four miles were dead. It was swarming with the
military. Through all the gaps in the hills above the River Meuse
the German army came pouring down like an enormous tidal
wave--a tidal wave with a purpose, viz: to fling itself against the
Allies arranged in battle line at Namur, and with the overwhelming
mass of numbers to smash that line to bits and sweep on
resistlessly into Paris. I thought of the Blue and Red wall of French
and English down there awaiting this Gray-Green tide of Teutons.

By the hundreds of thousands they were coming; patrols of cavalry
clattering along, the hoof-beats of the chargers coming with
regular cadence on the hard roads; silent moving riders mounted
on bicycles, their guns strapped on their backs; armored
automobiles rumbling slowly on, but taking the occasional spaces
which opened in the road with a hollow roaring sound and at a
terrific pace; individual horsemen galloping up and down the road
with their messages, and the massed regiments of dust-begrimed
men marching endlessly by.

I was glad to have the spell which had been woven on me broken
by strains of music from a wayside cafe, or rather the remains of a
cafe, for the windows had been demolished and wreckage was
strewn about the door, but the piano within had survived the
ravages. Though it was sadly out of tune, the officer, seated on a