“The army will move across where you are standing.  Get to a flank,” some one said.

AN ARMY IN MOTION

We were no more than well clear of that immobile host when it all surged forward, headed by massed bands playing a tune that sounded like the very pulse of France.

The two Generals, with their Staff, and the French Minister for War, were on foot near a patch of very green lucerne.  They made about twenty figures in all.  The cars were little grey blocks against the grey skyline.  There was nothing else in all that great plain except the army; no sound but the changing notes of the aeroplanes and the blunted impression, rather than noise, of feet of men on soft ground.  They came over a slight ridge, so that one saw the curve of it first furred, then grassed, with the tips of bayonets, which immediately grew to full height, and then, beneath them, poured the wonderful infantry.  The speed, the thrust, the drive of that broad blue mass was like a tide-race up an arm of the sea; and how such speed could go with such weight, and how such weight could be in itself so absolutely under control, filled one with terror.  All the while, the band, on a far headland, was telling them and telling them (as if they did not know!) of the passion and gaiety and high heart of their own land in the speech that only they could fully understand. (To hear the music of a country is like hearing a woman think aloud.)

“What is the tune?” I asked of an officer beside me.

“My faith, I can’t recall for the moment.  I’ve marched to it often enough, though.  ‘Sambre-et-Meuse,’ perhaps.  Look!  There goes my battalion!  Those Chasseurs yonder.”

He knew, of course; but what could a stranger identify in that earth-shaking passage of thirty thousand?

ARTILLERY AND CAVALRY

The note behind the ridge changed to something deeper.

“Ah!  Our guns,” said an artillery officer, and smiled tolerantly on the last blue waves of the Line already beating toward the horizon.

They came twelve abreast—­one hundred and fifty guns free for the moment to take the air in company, behind their teams.  And next week would see them, hidden singly or in lurking confederacies, by mountain and marsh and forest, or the wrecked habitations of men—­where?

The big guns followed them, with that long-nosed air of detachment peculiar to the breed.  The Gunner at my side made no comment.  He was content to let his Arm speak for itself, but when one big gun in a sticky place fell out of alignment for an instant I saw his eyebrows contract.  The artillery passed on with the same inhuman speed and silence as the Line; and the Cavalry’s shattering trumpets closed it all.