black, distinctly black.

The rumour ran down the column that La Fère was to be the termination of
that day's march, and as La Fère was only a matter of ten miles away, it
was felt that at last an "easy" day had arrived. The road led through
very pleasant places along a river valley, the opposite slope of which
was wooded. That morning, too, there was no suspicion of artillery fire.
It seemed that, for the moment at any rate, they had escaped the
inconvenience of battle. Somebody said that La Fère was fortified.
Behind its works they would doubtless stand, rest, and then perhaps
fight. (Even yet they had not learnt the futility of speculation.)

Those ten miles were long ones. It almost seemed to their tantalised
nerves that La Fère was not a town, but a mirage. And so it was, or at
least their thoughts of rest and water and food remained "in nebulis."

Outside the town was a road-crossing. One way led to the main street of
the town, and the other way to the south. To the consternation and
amazement of everybody, the khaki ribbon crept, not towards the houses,
but seemed for a dreadful moment to hesitate, to wobble, then turned its
head slowly and irrevocably away from the town. The men swore. They felt
that they were a scale on the skin of a long, sombre, khaki serpent,
whose head had acted contrary to the wishes of its belly. And the body
of the serpent quivered with indignation. The Subaltern himself felt
that he had been cheated, lured on by false pretences, and generally
treated shamefully. He knew perfectly well that these ideas were
groundless and absurd. He knew that the halt at La Fère was only rumour;
he knew long marches were the only thing to save them, but in spite of
this knowledge he was angry, enraged. The blood flew still more to his
burning cheeks, his teeth snapped together. If he could, he would have