sitting beside Tom, the chauffeur; Mrs. Torrence is on
the other side of me. Tom disapproves of these Flemish roads. He cannot
see that they are beautiful. They will play the devil with his tyres.

I am reminded unpleasantly that our Daimler is not a touring car but a
motor ambulance and that these roads will jolt the wounded most
abominably.

There are straggling troops on the road now. At the nearest village all
the inhabitants turn out to cheer us. They cry out "_Les Anglais!_" and
laugh for joy. Perhaps they think that if the British Red Cross has come
the British Army can't be far behind. But when they hear that we are
Belgian Red Cross they are gladder than ever. They press round us. It is
wonderful to them that we should have come all the way from England
"_pour les Belges!_" Somehow the beauty of the landscape dies before
these crowding, pressing faces.

We pass through Bruges without seeing it. I have no recollection
whatever of having seen the Belfry. We see nothing but the Canal (where
we halt to take in petrol) and more villages, more faces. And more
troops.

Half-way between Bruges and Ghent an embankment thrown up on each side
of the road tells of possible patrols and casual shooting. It is the
first visible intimation that the enemy may be anywhere.

A curious excitement comes to you. I suppose it is excitement, though it
doesn't feel like it. You have been drunk, very slightly drunk with the
speed of the car. But now you are sober. Your heart beats quietly,
steadily, but with a little creeping, mounting thrill in the beat. The
sensation is distinctly pleasurable. You say to yourself, "It is coming.
Now--or the next minute--perhaps at the end of the road." You have one
moment of regret. "After all, it would be a pity if it came too soon,
before we'd even begun our job." But the thrill, mounting steadily,
overtakes the regret. It is only a little thrill, so far (for you don't
really believe that there is any danger), but you can imagine the thing
growing, growing steadily, till it becomes ecstasy. Not that you imagine
anything at the moment. At the moment you are no longer an observing,
reflecting being; you have ceased to be aware of yourself; you exist
only in that quiet, steady thrill that is so unlike any excitement that
you have ever known. Presently you get used to it. "What a fool I should
have been if I hadn't come. I wouldn't have missed this run for the
world."

I forget myself so far as