“Our fox grows gray,” said they, “and his impudence increases.”

“Would it help us out of this predicament,” said I, “if he smote that German in the teeth and spat on him?”

They laughed at that and passed the remark along from window to window, until I roared at them to keep their heads in.  There were seven of us non-commissioned officers, and we rode in one compartment behind the officers’ carriage, Gooja Singh making much unpleasantness because there was not enough room for us all to lie full length at once.  We were locked into our compartment, and the only chance we had of speaking with Ranjoor Singh was when they brought us food at stations and he strode down the train to see that each man had his share.

“What is our destination?” we asked him then, repeatedly.

“If ye be true men,” he answered, “why are ye troubled about destination?  Can the truth lead you into error?  Do I seem afraid?” said he.

That was answer enough if we had been the true men we claimed to be, and he gave us no other.  So we watched the sun and tried to guess roughly, I recalling all the geography I ever knew, yet failing to reach conclusions that satisfied myself or any one.  We knew that Turkey was in the war, and we knew that Bulgaria was not.  Yet we traveled eastward, and southeastward.

I know now that we traveled over the edge of Germany into Austria, through Austria into Hungary, and through a great part of Hungary to the River Danube, growing so weary of the train that I for one looked back to the Flanders trenches as to long-lost happiness!  Every section of line over which we traveled was crowded with traffic, and dozens of German regiments kept passing and re-passing us.  Some cheered us and some were insulting, but all of them regarded us with more or less astonishment.

The Austrians were more openly curious about us than the Germans had been, and some of them tried to get into conversation, but this was not encouraged; when they climbed on the footboards to peer through the windows and ask us questions officers ordered them away.

Of all the things we wondered at on that long ride, the German regiments impressed us most.  Those that passed and repassed us were mostly artillery and infantry, and surely in all the world before there never were such regiments as those—­with the paint worn off their cannon, and their clothes soiled, yet with an air about them of successful plunderers, confident to the last degree of arrogance in their own efficiency—­not at all like British regiments, nor like any others that I ever saw.  It was Ranjoor Singh who drew my attention to the fact that regiments passing us in one direction would often pass us again on their way back, sometimes within the day.

“As shuttles in a loom!” said he.  “As long as they can do that they can fight on a dozen fronts.”  His words set me wondering so that I did not answer him.  He was speaking through our carriage window and I stared out beyond him at a train-load of troops on the far side of the station.