They emerged from the woods, once more to strike out in the glaring sunlight.  Soon a hill was seen in the distance, surmounted by a quaint and squat tower, very reminiscent of Windsor.  The houses which clustered beneath it formed the little town of Coucy-le-Chateau.  They camped out in an open field beneath the hill, and by stripping a couple of haystacks made themselves fairly comfortable.  They must have very effectually shaken off the enemy, for the General did not think it necessary to put out outposts.

The next morning, this time well before dawn, the retreat was continued, apparently on Soissons.  Precisely the same thing happened on this day as on the march to La Fere.  Soissons was no great distance from Coucy, only some eight or ten miles, and just when they reached the northern heights of the Aisne, and the whole town was visible, the Brigade sheered off to the right, and clung to the river bank.

Soissons looked so particularly inviting, the whites and greys and primroses of its walls flashing in the sun.  The sight of a French town (in the distance) is very pleasing to any one used to the terra-cotta reds of England.  The cobbles give the streets such a medieval air, the green shutters seem so queer, and there is such a disdain of geometry.  But when one gets right into the town, a violent change comes over the scene.  The cobbles that were so pleasantly medieval in the distance become, under one’s feet, nothing but an ankle-turning plague.  The stuccoed walls look very clean in the distance, but near to, the filth of the streets modifies one’s admiration.  A small French town generally reminds one of the outhouses and styes of a farm.  The air is diffuse with the scent of manure.  England, with all thy drainage system, I love thee still!

The road now clung to the river, which was not actually crossed until two or three o’clock in the afternoon.  The bridge was a large and substantial structure, and a section of Engineers were preparing to blow it up.  Before the hour’s halt was over, the inevitable alarm occurred, and two companies were detached to fight the usual rear-guard action, under the Major, who was now second-in-command.

The remainder of the Battalion continued the march, this time along the south bank of the river.

The heat was as usual intense, and to-day they missed the shady trees that had so well protected them the day before.  A couple of hours later they turned abruptly to the left, that is to say, southwards, and the Aisne disappeared in a cleft of the hills.  Winding tortuously at the feet of more or less steep slopes—­for the country was quite changed—­progress was not as easy as it had been.  At last, close on seven o’clock, a halt was made on a hillside.

Men fell to the ground with a grunt, thanking God that another of those Hell-days was over.  Too tired to move, even if the position was an uncomfortable one; too tired to pray for rest; too tired to think!