"If anyone asks you, say you know nothing."
These and other answers we receive.
Haudiomont once again. The night is advancing; kitchen fires are going out now, but from time to time the wind sends a tiny flame leaping out of a brazier which flickers and dies to darkness again.
We enter the forest of Amblonville, black and immense.
The faintly-marked path winds ahead until lost to view between trees which overhang it to right and left, and seem to be marching up as though to descend upon us and crush us. I experience a sense of oppression. At first we marched towards the south-west, then towards the south-east; now we are again marching towards the south-west. And three hours have passed since first we plunged into the wood. I feel as if I were sinking into mud which becomes thicker and thicker each moment. When may we hope to reach the bottom?
At last the sky can be seen between the trees, and the darkness lightens little by little. Now I begin to breathe more freely. The moon has disappeared; but the sky is thick with innumerable stars. A sentinel at a cross-road stamps his feet to keep them warm. We question him:
"Are there any Boches about here?"
"I think so," he replied. "There is a good chance of coming across them to-morrow."
"Where are they?"
"Towards Amblonville farm."