"To Liége, monsieur."

"Then do not go. It is not advisable. If you take my advice you return to England as soon as possible. Perhaps, soon, you come back again with a brave English army."

"Whatever is the fellow aiming at?" asked Kenneth, after the officer was out of ear-shot. "It's all so very mysterious about nothing."

"Do you call war between Germany and France and Russia nothing, old fellow?"

"I wasn't referring to that," replied Kenneth. "Of course it is. The Russians will simply walk over Prussia while the Germans are trying to batter the French frontier forts. No; what I meant is, why should we be balked in going to Liége? We'll go, and risk it—though I don't believe there is any risk. If there is, so much the better for us."

"Perhaps that Belgian officer knows more than he told us."

"Or else less. I'll tell you what, Rollo. We'll see what's doing at Liége; then, if there's time, we'll run back almost to the French frontier and see what the excitement is like there. Let's make another start."

The suggestion was quickly put into practice, but progress was tedious and slow. The highway between Namur and Liége was crowded with traffic. Military wagons, both motor-driven and drawn by horses and mules, seemed an unending stream. The rattling of the huge motor-lorries prevented the chauffeurs from hearing any sounds beyond the pulsations of their engines. In vain the two English lads sounded their horns. It was invariably a case of throwing out the clutch and waiting for a favourable moment to dash past, often with a bare yard between the off-side wheel of the powerful lorries and the deep ditch by the side of the road.

There were thousands of troops, too, with their supply-carts; swarms of peasants driving cattle into the fortresses; motor-cars, motor-cycles, and ordinary cycles galore, till Rollo remarked, during one of the enforced halts, that it was ten times worse than Barnet Hill on fair night.

At length, after taking two hours to traverse fifteen miles, the lads came in sight of the town of Huy. Here the traffic lessened slightly, and Kenneth called for an increased speed.

Suddenly Rollo saw his companion's cycle slip from under him. It was all he could do to avoid coming into collision with the prostrate mount. When he pulled up and dismounted, Kenneth was regaining his feet.

"Hurt?" asked Barrington laconically, yet with considerable anxiety.

"Not a bit," replied Kenneth cheerfully. "Only barked my knuckles. Get up, you brute!"

The last remark was addressed to the motor-cycle, which was lying on its side across a rounded stone embedded in the ground on the edge of the footpath. Kenneth found, for the first time, that it required a fair amount of physical energy to restore a fallen motorcycle to its normal position.

Thrice he tried a running start, but without success. The motor refused to fire.

"Jack it up on its stand," suggested Rollo. "Inject a little petrol into the compression tap and have another shot."

Kenneth promptly acted upon this advice, but still without satisfactory result. By this time Rollo had placed his cycle on its stand and was ready to give assistance.

"There's no spark," he announced after testing the plug. "I hope it isn't the magneto."

With the usual perversity of things in general and motor-cycles in particular, it was the magneto that was out of action. The round stone on which the cycle had fallen had given the delicate mechanism a nasty blow.

"This job's beyond me," declared Rollo. "We must see what can be done in the next town. Thank goodness it isn't far. Off with the belt and push her; I won't risk towing you with this traffic about."

Already the disabled motor-cycle was surrounded by a crowd of peasants and soldiers, all of whom offered advice; but, as the majority of the onlookers were Walloons, their Flemish tongue was not understood by the two English lads.

At length Kenneth managed to get into conversation with a French-speaking corporal, and from him learnt that there was an efficient motor-repairer in Huy, whose place of business faced the market square.

It was exhausting work pushing the two motor-bicycles along the undulating, rough cobbled road in the fierce glare of the August sun. The crowd followed.

About a quarter of a mile farther along the road a chasseur passed. Reining in his horse he addressed the corporal.

"What, then, has happened, Pierre?"

The Belgian non-com. shrugged his shoulders.

"Only two German tourists, Gaston," he replied. "They have had an accident."

"German!" exclaimed Kenneth indignantly. "You are wrong. We are English."

"Can Monsieur produce proof?" asked the corporal.

Fortunately both lads possessed permits de circulation—documents issued to foreign tourists on entering French territory, and which they had not given up at the douane at Givet. On each document was pasted a photograph of the bearer and particulars of his name, nationality, occupation, and place of abode.

In less than a minute the indifferent demeanour of the crowd underwent a complete change. Amid shouts of "Vivent les Anglais!" several of the Belgians took possession of the two motor-cycles, and, in spite of frequent wobblings, pushed them right into the town.

Here another set-back greeted the tourists. The repairer gravely informed them that a new magneto was absolutely necessary, and since he had not one in stock he would be obliged to send to Brussels for it.

Under the circumstances an enforced stay would have to be made at Huy, so the lads booked a room at a modest but cheerful-looking hotel. The town and environs seemed delightfully picturesque, and, although Kenneth chafed under the delay, both lads eventually admitted they might have been hung up in many a worse place than Huy.

The next day, Sunday, they were awakened early by a clamour in the street, and found that newsvendors were doing a roaring trade. The papers were full of sensational reports, and although definite news was not forthcoming, it was quite evident that the war clouds were rapidly gathering.

Rollo, the cautious, suggested the abandonment of the Liége trip and a hasty return home, but Kenneth set his face against any such proposal.

"Look here," he said, "if there's any truth in this report, and England does chip in, we will do no good by returning home. The powers that be have decided that we are not yet of an age to take up a commission, although I flatter myself that we are both better men than Tompkins, late of the Upper Sixth, who was gazetted to a line regiment a week before the holidays, you'll remember. If there is a dust-up we'll try our luck with the French. They don't object to fellows of sixteen, so long as they are keen. Take the case of Lord Kitchener, for instance. He served as a cadet in the war of '70 and '71."

"Don't be in such a violent hurry, old man. Stick to our original programme and go to Liége, if you will. It may be necessary for us to look after your sister, you know."

"I don't think so; I firmly believe that Belgium will be left out of the business. This scare will be over in a few days. The pen is mightier than the sword, you know, so Germany will respect her plighted word to preserve the neutrality of both Holland and Belgium."

It was nearly noon on Monday morning when the lads wended their way to the motor-repairer's. Outside the burgomaster's house a huge crowd had gathered. The chief magistrate was making ready to read a document. It was a copy of the momentous ultimatum from the bully of Europe to one of the smallest of her neighbours: a peremptory demand that the Belgian Government should allow the legions of the Kaiser to pass through Belgium in order to attack the least-defended frontier of France, and threatening to make war upon the little buffer State should she refuse.

A dead silence greeted the burgomaster's announcement. The news, though not unexpected, was astounding.

Again he