I turned about, and in so doing my eye lit on the poplar-lined highway from X., and I understood. Along the road poured the hordes of an advancing army, advancing in somewhat irregular column of route, with banners flying. The head of the column was not a mile distant. The Infantry must be on my heels, thought I. Stout marching! I grabbed up my glasses, took a long look and bellowed with laughter. It was not the Infantry at all; it was the liberated population of X., headed by the Mayor and Corporation, come out to see the fun, the grandmères and grandpères, the girls and boys, the dogs and babies, marching, hobbling, skipping, toddling down the pave, waving their calico tricolours and singing the Marseillaise. I thought of the Boche fleeing eastward with the fear of God in his soul, and rolled about in my saddle drunk with joy.