“How deep is the water?” I asked.

“It varies—­from two to eight feet.  Here it is shallow.”

“I should think they would come over.”

“The water is full of barbed wire,” he said grimly.  “And some, a great many, have tried—­and failed.”

As of the trenches, many have written of the stenches of this war.  But the odour of that beautiful lagoon was horrible.  I do not care to emphasize it.  It is one of the things best forgotten.  But any lingering belief I may have had in the grandeur and glory of war died that night beside that silver lake—­died of an odour, and will never live again.

And now came a discussion.

The road crossing the railroad embankment turned sharply to the left and proceeded in front of the trenches.  There was no shelter on that side of the embankment.  The inundation bordered the road, and just beyond the inundation were the German trenches.

There were no trees, no shrubbery, no houses; just a flat road, paved with Belgian blocks, that gleamed in the moonlight.

At last the decision was made.  We would go along the road, provided I realised from the first that it was dangerous.  One or two could walk there with a good chance for safety, but not more.  The little group had been augmented.  It must break up; two might walk together, and then two a safe distance behind.  Four would certainly be fired on.

I wanted to go.  It was not a matter of courage.  I had simply, parrot-fashion, mimicked the attitude of mind of the officers.  One after another I had seen men go into danger with a shrug of the shoulders.

“If it comes it comes!” they said, and went on.  So I, too, had become a fatalist.  If I was to be shot it would happen, if I had to buy a rifle and try to clean it myself to fulfil my destiny.

So they let me go.  I went farther than they expected, as it turned out.  There was a great deal of indignation and relief when it was over.  But that is later on.

A very tall Belgian officer took me in charge.  It was necessary to work through a barbed-wire barricade, twisting and turning through its mazes.  The moonlight helped.  It was at once a comfort and an anxiety, for it seemed to me that my khaki-coloured suit gleamed in it.  The Belgian officers in their dark blue were less conspicuous.  I thought they had an unfair advantage of me, and that it was idiotic of the British to wear and advocate anything so absurd as khaki.  My cape ballooned like a sail in the wind.  I felt at least double my ordinary size, and that even a sniper with a squint could hardly miss me.  And, by way of comfort, I had one last instruction before I started: 

“If a fusee goes up, stand perfectly still.  If you move they will fire.”

The entire safety of the excursion depended on a sort of tacit agreement that, in part at least, obtains as to sentries.