They were but one of hundreds of such squads of light cavalry—­uhlans for the most part—­ranging all over western Belgium as far as Ostend, a dozen or so men in hostile country, prepared to be cut to pieces if they found the enemy they were looking for, or to be caught from ambush at any time by some squad of civic guards.  But as one watched them disappear down their long road to France they grew into something more than that.  And in the twilight of the quiet countryside these stern shapes that rode on without turning, lances upstanding from tired shoulders, became strange, grotesque, pathetic—­again the Germans, legions of the War Lord, come too late into a world which must crush them at last, Knights of the Frightful Adventure, riding to their death.

Chapter II

Paris At Bay

The Calais and Boulogne routes were already closed.  Dieppe and Havre might at any moment follow.  You must go now, people said in London, if you want to get there at all.

And yet the boat was crowded as it left Folkstone.  In bright afternoon sunshine we hurried over the Channel, empty of any sign of war, unless war showed in its very emptiness.  Next to me sat a young Frenchman, different from those we had met before hurrying home to fight.  Good-looking, tall, and rather languid in manner, he spoke English with an English accent, and you would have taken him for an Englishman.  A big canvas bag full of golf-clubs leaned against the wall behind him, and he had been trying to play golf at one of the east-coast seaside places in England.  But one couldn’t play in a time like this, and the young man sighed and waved his hands rather desperately—­one couldn’t settle down to anything.  So he was going home.  To fight ?—­I suggested.  Possibly, he said—­the army had refused him several years ago—­maybe they would take him now.  Very politely, in his quiet manner, he asked me down to tea.  When he stood by the rail watching the tawny French cliffs draw nearer, one noticed a certain weary droop to his shoulders, in contrast to his well-tanned, rather athletic-looking, face—­born a little tired, perhaps, like the young nobleman in Bernstein’s “Whirlwind.”  His baggage was addressed to a Norman chateau.

On the other side was a pink-cheeked boy of seventeen, all French, though he spoke English and divided his time between writing post-cards to the boys he had been visiting in England and reading General von Bernhardi.  “The first chapter, ‘The Right to Make War,’” he said, “I understand that—­yes!  But the second chapter—­’The Duty to Make War’” —­he laughed and shook his head.

“No—­no—­no!” He was the son of an insurance agent who was already at the front, and, although under age, he hoped to enlist.  We drew nearer Dieppe—­tall French houses leaning inward with tricolors in the windows, a quay with the baggy red breeches of French soldiers showing here and there—­just such a scene as they paint on theatre curtains at home.  A smoky tug whistled uproariously, there was a patter of wooden shoes as children clattered along the stone jetty, and from all over the crowd that had come down to greet us came brave shouts of “Eep-eep Hoorah!  Eep-eep Hoorah!”