Germans were everywhere. Some were buying postcards, some sausages. Motor cars dashed in and out full of grey or blue uniforms. Fair, grave, sardonic faces were to be seen now, where only a few brief days ago there had been naught but Belgians' brave eyes, and lively, tender physiognomy. Our little party was silent, depressed. I wore a handkerchief over my head, tied beneath my chin, a big black apron, and a white shawl, and I kept my arm inside Henri's.
"Voici, Madame," he exclaimed suddenly. "Voilà les Anglais."
"Et les Anglaises," gasped Ada under her breath.
We were just then crossing the Avenue de Kaiser—that once gay, bright Belgian Avenue where I had so often walked with Alice, my dear little Liègeoise, now fled, alas, I knew not where.
A procession was passing between the long lines of fading acacias. A huge waggon, some mounted Germans, two women.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" says Ada.
Lying on sacks in the open waggon are wounded English officers, their eyes shut.
And trudging on foot behind the waggon, with an indescribable steadfastness and courage, is an English nurse in her blue uniform, and a tall, thin, erect English lady, with grey hair and a sweet face under a wide black hat.
"They are taking them to Germany!" whispers Henri in my ear.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" moans Ada under her breath. "Oh, les pauvres Anglaises!"