Then he went to see the officers who in the village square were giving their horses a brief rest before rejoining their columns.  With perplexed countenances and heavy eyes they were talking among themselves about this retreat, so incomprehensible to them all.  Days before in Guise they had routed their pursuers, and yet now they were continually withdrawing in obedience to a severe and endless order.  “We do not understand it,” they were saying.  “We do not understand.”  An ordered and methodical tide was dragging back these men who wanted to fight, yet had to retreat.  All were suffering the same cruel doubt.  “We do not understand.”

And doubt was making still more distressing this day-and-night march with only the briefest rests—­because the heads of the divisions were in hourly fear of being cut off from the rest of the army.  “One effort more, boys!  Courage!  Soon we shall rest!” The columns in their retirement were extending hundreds of miles.  Desnoyers was seeing only one division.  Others and still others were doing exactly this same thing at that very hour, their recessional extending across half of France.  All, with the same disheartened obedience, were falling back, the men exclaiming the same as the officials, “We don’t understand.  We don’t understand!”

Don Marcelo soon felt the same sadness and bewilderment as these soldiers.  He didn’t understand, either.  He saw the obvious thing, what all were able to see—­the territory invaded without the Germans encountering any stubborn resistance;—­entire counties, cities, villages, hamlets remaining in the power of the enemy, at the back of an army that was constantly withdrawing.  His enthusiasm suddenly collapsed like a pricked balloon, and all his former pessimism returned.  The troops were displaying energy and discipline; but what did that amount to if they had to keep retreating all the time, unable on account of strict orders to fight or defend the land?  “Just as it was in the ’70’s,” he sighed.  “Outwardly there is more order, but the result is going to be the same.”

As though a negative reply to his faint-heartedness, he overheard the voice of a soldier reassuring a farmer:  “We are retreating, yes—­only that we may pounce upon the Boches with more strength.  Grandpa Joffre is going to put them in his pocket when and where he will.”

The mere sound of the Marshal’s name revived Don Marcelo’s hope.  Perhaps this soldier, who was keeping his faith intact in spite of the interminable and demoralizing marches, was nearer the truth than the reasoning and studious officers.