THE BATTLE OF FRANCE
the French. The liaison officers exchanged pass-
words. The bugles rang out; there was a cry from
the pipes. And the Frenchmen moved away to the
strains of an old-time march, while the Scots took
up their positions in the blockhouse. That was all.
But the following Sunday, in the little town
near by, the Scottish treated the inhabitants to a
magnificent show. Massed in the market square
were the bands of all the units, a hundred pipers and
drums heraldic. These were led by their pipe-
majors, who were themselves conducted by another
older than they, a giant of a man that wore a brusque
red moustache and imposing dignity. The bands-
men have kept their kilts and I was happy at seeing
once again the great variegated squares that
distinguished the Gordons from the Black Watch
and the Seaforths.
The General arrived. Among those around him
were officers so huge that there was no escaping the
thought that each of them might in himself have
been a gunnery observation post. The large drum-
major, a dwarf beside them, lifted his cane. The
drummers brought their sticks to the level of their
lips. A long roll rose crescendo, fell away and died.
Then, in response to the magisterial cane, the whole
tuneful body began to move, the pipers gravely
crossing the ranks of the drummers as they marked
the rhythm. The march of the piper is almost a
dance. Slowed down sometimes to funeral pace, it
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