Then we discovered fifty German motor cyclists, in grey uniforms, and flat caps, flying smoothly along the side path in one long grey line.
Their accoutrements looked perfect and trim, their general appearance was strikingly smart, natty, and workmanlike in the extreme.
Just before they reached us Jean got down and walked on foot along the road at the edge of the side path where they were riding.
And as they passed quite near him Jean turned his glance towards me and gave me an enormous wink.
I don't know whether that was Jean's sense of humour.
I always forgot afterwards to ask him what it meant.
I only know that it had a peculiarly cheering effect on me to see that great black eye winking and then turning itself with a quiet, careless gaze on the faces of the fifty German cyclists.
They passed without doing more than casting a look at us, and were lost to sight in a moment flashing onwards with tremendous speed towards Enghien.
We were now on the brow of a hill, and as we reached it, and began to descend, we were confronted with a spectacle that fairly took away my breath.
The long white road before us was literally lined with Germans.