Also, we are told that at nine o'clock we are to start for Brussels--not by automobile, but aboard a train carrying wounded and prisoners northward.
Everybody cheers up, especially after ma-dame promises to have the fowls and the eggs ready in less than an hour.
The Belgian photographer, who, it develops, is to go with our troop, has been brought in from the guardhouse and placed with us.

With the passing hours his fright has increased.

Gerbeaux says the poor devil is one of the leading photographers of Brussels--that by royal appointment he takes pictures of the queen and her children.

But the queen would have trouble in recognizing her photographer if she could see him now-- with straw in his tousled hair, and his jaw lolling under the weight of his terror, and his big, wild eyes staring this way and that.

Nothing that Gerbeaux can say to him will dissuade him from the belief that the Germans mean to shoot him.
I almost forgot to detail a thing that occurred a few minutes ago, just before the Belgian joined us.