“It seems to be a devoted army,” Stewart remarked. “I never heard such cheering.”
“It is a splendid army,” and the girl swept her eyes back and forth over the marching host. “France will have no easy task—but she is fighting for her life, and she will win!”
“I hope so,” Stewart agreed; but his heart misgave him as he looked at these marching men, sweeping on endlessly, irresistibly, in a torrent which seemed powerful enough to engulf everything in its path.
He had never before seen an army, even a small one, and this mighty host unnerved and intimidated him. It was so full of vigor, so self-confident, so evidently certain of victory! It was so sturdy, so erect, so proud! There was about it an electric sense of power; it almost strutted as it marched!
“There is one thing certain,” he said, at last, “and that is that our adventures are not yet over. With our flight discovered, and Germans in front of us and behind us and probably on either side of us, our position is still decidedly awkward. I suppose their outposts are somewhere ahead.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed. “Along the Meuse, perhaps.”
“And I am most awfully hungry. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I have heard that whole wheat makes a delicious breakfast dish,” said Stewart, who felt unaccountably down-hearted and was determined not to show it. “Shall we try some?”
She nodded, smiling, then turned back to watch the Germans, as though fascinated by them. Stewart broke off a dozen heads of yellow grain, rubbed them out between his hands, blew away the chaff, and poured the fat kernels into her outstretched palm. Then he rubbed out a mouthful for himself.