I would defy that column to move so fast that I could not keep up with it.
In the black gloom we could make out a longish clump of men who stood four abreast, scuffling their feet upon the miry wet stones of the square.

These were the prisoners--one hundred and fifty Frenchmen and Turcos, eighty Englishmen and eight Belgians.

From them, as we drew near, an odor of wet, unwashed animals arose.

It was as rank and raw as fumes from crude ammonia.

Then, in the town house of the Prince de Caraman-Chimay just alongside, the double doors opened, and the light streaming out fell upon the naked bayonets over the shoulders of the sentries and made them look like slanting lines of rain.
There were eight of us by now in the party of guests, our original group of five having been swollen by the addition of three others--the Frenchman Gerbeaux, the American artist Stevens and the Belgian court- photographer Hennebert, who had been under arrest for five days.