Brand and I, who were inseparable now, and young Harding, who had joined us, crossed the Belgian frontier with our leading troop of cavalry—the Dragoon Guards—and entered Germany on the morning of September 4. For three days our advanced cavalry outposts had been halted on the frontier line beyond Verviers and Spa. The scenery had become German already—hill-country, with roads winding through fir forests above deep ravines, where red undergrowth glowed like fire through the rich green of fir-trees, and where, on the hill-*sides and in the valleys, were wooden châlets and villas with pointed turrets like those in the Black Forest.
We halted this side of a little stone bridge over the stream which divides the two countries. A picket of Dragoons was holding the bridge with double sentries, under orders to let no man pass until the signal was given to advance.
"What's the name of this place?" asked Brand of a young cavalry officer smoking a cigarette and clapping his hands to keep warm.
"Rothwasser, sir," said that child, removing the cigarette from his lips. He pointed to a small house on rising ground beyond, a white building with a slate roof, and said:
"That's the first house in Germany. I don't suppose they'll invite us to breakfast."
Brand and I leaned over the stone bridge, watching and listening to the swirl of tawny water over big grey stones.
