g crowd of
soldiers, marching in column. It was such an unusual sight, we never
having witnessed the arrival of more than a dozen prisoners at a time,
that, especially the moment I descried the uniforms, my curiosity was
aroused. Many of my comrades were astir and partly dressed when I gave a
hail, so they hurried out to join me.

The army, for such it seemed, advanced amidst clouds of dust. As they
drew nearer we identified those at the head as Belgian soldiers. They
swung by without faltering. Behind them came a small army of French
prisoners. We could not help noticing the comparatively small number of
wounded among both the Belgians and the French, and although they were
undoubtedly dejected at their unfortunate capture they were apparently
in fine fettle.

But it was the men who formed the rear of this depressing cavalcade, and
who also numbered several hundreds, which aroused our keenest interest
and pity. From their khaki uniforms it was easy to determine their
nationality. They were British military prisoners.

It was a sad and pitiful procession, and it was with the greatest
difficulty we could suppress our emotion. The tears welled to our eyes
as we looked on in silent sympathy. We would have given those hardened
warriors a rousing cheer but we dared not. The guards would have
resented such an outburst, which would have rendered the lot of the
British, both civilian and military, a hundred times worse.

The soldiers, battle-stained, blood-stained, weary of foot, body and
mind walked more like mechanical toys than men in the prime of life.
Their clothes were stained almost beyond recognition; their faces were
ragged with hair and smeared with dirt. But though oppressed, tired,
hungry and thirsty they were far from being cast down, although many
could scarcely move one foot before the other.

The most touching sight was the tenderness with which the unwounded and
less injured assisted their weaker comrades. Some of the worst cases
must have been suffering excruciating agony, but they bore their pain
with the stoicism of a Red Indian. The proportion of wounded was
terrifying: every man appeared to be carrying one scar or another. As
they swung by us they gave us a silent greeting which we returned, but
there was far more significance in that mute conversation with eyes and
slight movements of the hands than in volumes of words and frantic
cheering.

The brutal reception they had received from their captors