I know I shall never forget that smell, or the sound of all our feet clumping over those slick cobbles.

Nor shall I forget, either, the appealing calls of Gerbeaux' black chauffeur, who was being left behind in the now empty guardhouse, and who, to judge from his tones, did not expect ever to see any of us again.

As a matter of fact, I ran across him two weeks later in Liege.

He had just been released and was trying to make his way back to Brussels.
The way ahead of us was inky black.

The outlines of the tall Belgian houses on either side of the narrow street were barely visible, for there were no lights in the windows at all and only dim candles or oil lamps in the lower floors.