Luckily, another similar incident relieved the situation, shortly afterwards.  During a few minutes’ halt, a cow near the road stood gazing, with that apathetic interest peculiar to cows, at the thirsty men.  It was not for nothing, as the French say, that one of the reservists had been a farm hand.  He went up to the cow, unfastening his empty water-bottle as he went, and calmly leant down and began to milk the neglected animal until his bottle was full.  It was not in itself a funny proceeding, but there was something about the calmness of both the cow and the man, and something about the queerness of the occasion, that appealed to the sense of humour of the dourest old Puritan of them all.  They laughed, they roared, they shouted, in a way that reminded the Subaltern of the last “soccer” season.

The noise must have mystified the pursuing Uhlans not a little.

But the laugh did not last long on their lips.  Directly afterwards they swung into a road already occupied by a train of refugees.  After the sight of a good strong man struck down in his strength, this, perhaps, was the saddest sight of the whole war.  How miserable they were, these helpless, hopeless people, trailing sadly along the road, the majority with all they had saved from the wreckage of their homes tied in a sheet, and carried on their backs.  Some were leading a cow, others riding a horse, a few were in oxen-driven wagons.  They looked as if they had lost faith in everything, even in God.  They had the air of people calmly trying to realise the magnitude of the calamity which had befallen them, and failing.

Here and there the Subaltern thought he saw a gleam of reproach in their faces.  It hurt him not a little.  Only a few days ago the British had been advancing, as they thought, to certain victory.  All had been sunshine, or at any rate hope.  How the villagers had shouted and cheered them!  How the women had wept with sheer joy, and shy young girls had thrust flowers into their buttonholes!  What heroes they had felt swinging forward to meet the enemy, to defend the homes of their friends and Allies, and avenge their wrongs!

The role had been melodramatic, superb!  But here they were, skirting the very gates of Paris, apparently fleeing before the enemy, and this without having made any very determined effort at resistance.  Poor protectors they must have looked!  Those simple peasants would not understand the efficacy, the necessity even, of running away “to live and fight another day,” with a greater chance of success.

The Subaltern often used to wonder what the poor wretches thought of troops, which, though in possession of arms and ammunition, still retreated—­always retreated.  They could not understand.