Out there two old Belgians are talking.
"Ce sont les Anglais qui ne veulent pas rendre les forts!" says one.
They are discussing the fighting which still goes on fiercely in the forts around the city.
My head aches! I am hungry; and those big guns are making what the Kaiser would call World Noises.
Strange thoughts come over me, attacking me, like Samson Agonistes' "deadly swarm of hornets armed."
In a terrific conflict it doesn't seem to matter much which side is victorious, all hatred of the conquerors dies away; in fact the conquerors themselves may seem like deliverers since peace comes in with their entrance.
And I am weak and weary enough at this moment to wish les Anglais would give it up, let the forts be rendered, and let the cannons cease.
Anything for peace, for an end of slaughter, an end of terror, an end of this cruel soul-racking thunder.
Terrible thoughts ... deadly thoughts.
Do they come to the soldiers, thoughts like these? Heaven help the poor fellows if they do!