black clouds of Militarism! And all this was not to be? He had never
even heard that Liège had fallen, let alone Brussels, and here were the
Germans apparently right round the Allied flank. It was astounding,
irritating. In a vague way he felt deceived and staggered. It was a
disillusionment! If the Germans were across the Sambre, the French could
scarcely launch their victorious attack on the Rhine.

The excitement dispelled his fatigue, but the men were openly
incredulous. "The ruddy 'Oolans 'ere a'ready! They're only tellin' us
that, to make us march!"

The first fight! How would it turn out? How would the men shape? Could
the ammunition supply be depended upon? But above all, what would he be
like? Would he feel afraid? If so, would he be able to hide it? Would
his men follow him well? Perhaps he might be wounded (parts of him
shrank from the thought), or killed. No, somehow he felt it was
impossible that he would be killed. These and a thousand more such
questions flashed through his brain as the march continued northwards.

The hourly halts were decreased from ten to about three minutes. The
excitement of the future dissolved the accumulating fatigue of the three
days. The very weight of his sword and haversack was forgotten.

It was Sunday morning. The bells of the village churches were ringing,
and the women and children, decked in their Sunday best, were going
calmly to church, just as if the greatest battle that, up to then,
history had ever seen were not about to be fought around their very
homesteads.

A waterworks was passed, and at last the crossroads were reached. There