That night the Colonel addressed the Officers at some length. "The old
man" always had an impressive way of speaking, and darkness and
overwrought nerves doubtless magnified this. He spoke in subdued tones,
as if awed by the intense silence of the night.

We all could tell where we were, he said--a few miles east, or even
south-east by east of the French Capital. Our base, Havre, lay to the
north-west, with the enemy in between. It was unnecessary to say
anything further. The facts spoke for themselves. The British Army was
up against it, none could tell what would happen next. One duty,
however, was self-evident, and that was to watch the food-supply.

Things were going to be serious. Henceforward the army was to be on half
rations, and he knew what that meant. He had been on "half rations" in
the South African War, and he had seen a man give a franc for a dirty
biscuit, and he knew what it was for soldiers on active service to be
hungry. He ordered us, he begged and prayed them, to spare no energy in
stopping waste of any description, and making their men realise the
gravity of the position. No Officer was in future to draw any rations
from the Company Cookers, and the Mess Sergeant had somehow procured and
victualed a mess-cart.

That night must have been the most fateful night in the history of
France. All the world was watching with bated breath, watching to see
whether France was really a "back number"--whether the Prussian was
truly the salt of the earth. If Paris fell, the French Armies in the
field were cut off from their base; defeat was certain, and the national
history of France, or, at any rate, the glory of it, would be stamped
out for ever under the Kaiser's heel. The fate of France was in the