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TO SEDAN 131
It is a pity to be robbed of the view over this beautiful country.
The line winds in manifold curves, now rising, now descending.
On we travel, desperately slow ; the train groans and the
timbers of the carriages creak under the burden of their load.
Ahead of us appears another tunnel. At its entrance a little
hut has been erected, where a patrol of Landsturm soldiers
are just engaged in preparing their supper. We are travelling
very slowly and are able to exchange a few words with the blue-
clad men. Slowly and steadily we glide into the dark mouth
of the tunnel. The engine pants and snorts, the tunnel is
filled with smoke, and we quickly close the windows. We
advance more slowly still, and the steam makes a horrible
roar in front. Now the engine breaks down, and we come to
a standstill ! One of my fellow-travellers comes into the pitch-
dark compartment, carrying a little lamp, which makes us
feel more cheerful. The smoke becomes thicker and fills the
compartment—if this goes on much longer we shall be
asphyxiated. I open the window for a moment and peep out
—nothing but darkness and smoke ! But through the cloud
one can see the sparks flying from the engine, which seems to
be gathering strength. This train is loaded with powder and
shot, and if it should explode just here in the tunnel—^well,
the railway corps will have their work cut out !
The engine gives another snort, making the walls of the
tunnel re-echo. We begin to move again. A light appears
ahead—probably the mouth of the tunnel. But no, it is only
a lantern dimmed by the smoke. A little later it is the reflec-
tion of the engine-fire that looks like the dawning of day-
light. Will this eternal tunnel never end ? We have been
in it for more than half an hour, when at last it gets clearer
and we can breathe fresh air again. But there is now little
daylight left ; the dusk obliterates the outlines of the land-
scape and the moon, yellow and mocking, floats over the
troubled earth.
By about eight the satellite has whitened, and is perched
in the tree-tops. It is clear and cold. How easy it would be
for snipers to send their bullets from some lurking-place in the
woods through the faintly lighted windows of the train !
But no shots echo through the night ; all is hushed and silent
outside. There is nothing to remind one of war—one travels
as in times of profoundest peace.
We have left behind to the west of us Bouillon, once the
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