At last we arrived at Enghien, and found ourselves in a little brown straggling picturesque village on a hillside, full of peasants, who were gathered in a dense crowd in the "grand place," which was here the village common.
They had come in out of the fields, these peasants, stained with mud and all the discolourations of the soil. Their innocent faces spoke of the calm sweet things of nature. But mixed with the innocence was a great wonder and bewilderment now.
All this time, ever since we left Ghent, we had never seen a Belgian militaire.
That of itself told its own story of how completely we were outside the last chance of Belgian protection.—outside la dernière ligne.
CHAPTER XIII
THE LUNCH AT ENGHIEN
Dear little Enghien! I shall always remember you.
It was so utterly-out-of-the-ordinary to drive to the railway station, and have one's lunch cooked by the stationmaster.
A dear old man he was, that old grey-bearded Belgian.