"We're spies, too," said Paul, soberly. "And a good many Belgians will be spies, and Frenchmen, too, before this war has been going on very long. It's not nice work. There isn't the glory and the excitement about it that there is for the soldiers who are doing the fighting. But a spy does more for his country, if he succeeds in getting some really important information, than a whole regiment of men who do nothing but fight."
"I suppose so," admitted Arthur, grudgingly. "It's safe to go on now, isn't it?"
"Yes. I don't think we'll find our friend Ridder in the next field! And I hope we won't run into any more Germans of any sort."
As they walked along, the searchlights still flashed to their right and at intervals sounds of heavy firing came to them from the same direction. But the steady, ceaseless cannonading was over, and there had been no renewal of the sounds that indicated fighting at close quarters. Liege, it was easy to understand, was holding out.
Their course across the fields finally brought them to the river road, where they felt themselves at home. This road they knew thoroughly, having traversed it many and many a time. Now they were well on their way to Huy and felt that there was no reason now why they should not arrive safely. But suddenly Paul stopped.
"There's no use in our getting to Huy before morning, before it's light, anyway," he said. "The sentries wouldn't let us by. You know this is wartime. We're not used to that yet. Everything is changed. I'm tired, and I know you are, too. I think the best thing we can do is to get some sleep. We can't tell what we may not have to do after we get to Huy, and we'd better be fresh and ready for whatever turns up."
"I am tired," admitted Arthur. "I think you're right. Where shall we sleep?"
"We'll find a place before long," said Paul. "How peaceful it is here! If we couldn't see the searchlights and hear the guns now and then there'd be nothing to make it seem as if there was real fighting going on within a few miles."
Houses were fairly frequent as they went along, but all were dark. Their occupants, if they had not fled from the nearness of war, were all asleep. They were farm houses in the main; here, as everywhere in Belgium, the land was cut up into innumerable tiny patches, even smaller than the peasant farms of France. In the fields were endless rows of vegetables—beans, turnips, cabbages, and garden truck of all sorts. This was the sort of country that had made Belgium known for years as the vegetable garden of Europe. Finally they stopped near a dark house, and made themselves comfortable in the lee of a haystack. And there they slept until the light of the sun came to rouse them. They awoke to see a peasant boy staring stupidly at them.
"Good-morning!" said Paul, rousing himself. "Can we get breakfast in your house if we pay for it?"