On the opposite bank ran the railway from Liège, across the Dutch frontier to Maastricht, and from beyond the line there appeared all along, for miles, light puffs of smoke which betrayed the position of the enemy, who had crossed those picturesque green hills of the frontier, and who were endeavouring to force a passage across the Meuse.
On the right, over the hills where the river wound, could be heard the loud roar of the German guns which had been brought up against Liège, while from the left came the eternal rattle of the machine-guns. In that trench, before which the river and the canal ran parallel, the men on either ride of Edmond uttered no word. They were silent, firing with regularity, fascinated by the novel scene. Most of them had played the war-game at the annual manoeuvres, when one stood up in trenches and laughed in the face of blank cartridge. Yet here was real war. Already more than one of their comrades had fallen on their faces struck by German bullets, and not far away a shell had just burst behind one of their machine-guns.
The din and rattle of it all struck a strange, uncanny note upon that quiet countryside.
For nearly half an hour Edmond had been plugging away with his men, when of a sudden a machine-gun section ran up close to them. Room was made in the trench, and the gun, carried in parts by half a dozen sturdy soldiers, was quickly assembled.
Then, the belt of cartridges having been adjusted, at the word of command the terrible engine of destruction suddenly spat its hail of death across the river.
The onder-officier with the gun laughed gaily to Edmond, saying in Flemish:
“Our friends yonder will not like this—eh?”
“Oy hebt gelyk,” (you are right), laughed Edmond. “But see over there! What is that smoke; there—away to the left?”
“That is Visé,” was the reply, shouted above the rattle of the machine-gun. “The enemy must have set the place on fire—the brutes! Look?”
And as both watched they saw a great column of black smoke rising slowly into the clear, cloudless sky.