Since he had left Cidoton he had been travelling towards England; as he had gone on fear had grown on him.
Up to the last it had seemed incredible that he should not get through, hard though the way might be.
But now he realised that he would not get through.
The Germans were between him and the sea.
In marching on to Angerville he was marching to disaster, to internment, probably to his death.
That did not worry him so much.
He was old and tired; if an end came now he would be missing nothing very much.
A few more days of fishing, a few more summers pottering in his garden. But the children - they were another matter.
Somehow he must make them secure.
Rose and Pierre might be turned over to the French police; sooner or later they would be returned to their relations.
But Sheila and Ronnie - what arrangements could he possibly make for them?
What would become of them?
And what about the dirty little boy who now was with them, who had been stoned by old women mad with terror and blind hate?
What would become of him?
The old man suffered a good deal.
There was nothing to be done but to walk straight into Angerville.
The Germans were behind them, to the north, to the east, and to the west.
He felt that it was hopeless to attempt a dash across the country to the south as the Air Force men had done; he could not possibly out-distance the advance of the invader.
Better to go ahead and meet what lay before him bravely, conserving his strength that he might help the children best.
Ronnie said: 'Listen to the band.'
They were about half a mile from the town.
Rose exclaimed with pleasure.
'Ecoute, Pierre,' she said, bending down to him.
'Ecoute!'
'Eh,' said Howard, waking from his reverie.
'What's that?'
Ronnie said: 'There's a band playing in the town.
May we go and listen to it?'
But his ears were keener than the old man's, and Howard could hear nothing.
Presently, as they walked into the town, he picked out the strains of Liebestraum.
On the way into the town they passed a train of very dirty lorries halted by the road, drawing in turn up to a garage and filling their tanks at the pump.
The soldiers moving round them appeared strange at first; with a shock the old man realised that he was seeing what he had expected for the last hour to see; the men were German soldiers.
They wore field-grey uniforms with open collars and patch pockets, with a winged eagle broidered on the right breast.
Some of them were bare-headed; others wore the characteristic German steel hehnet.
They had sad, tired, expressionless faces; they moved about their work like so many machines.
Sheila said: 'Are those Swiss soldiers, Mr Howard?'
'No,' he said, 'they're not Swiss.'
Ronnie said: 'They wear the same kind of hat.'
Rose said: 'What are they?'
He gathered them around him.
'Look,' he said in French, 'you mustn't be afraid.
They are German, but they won't hurt you.'
They were passing a little group of them.
From the crowd an Unterfeldwebel came up to them; he wore long black boots and breeches stained with oil.
'That is the proper spirit,' he said in harsh, guttural French.
'We Germans are your friends.
We bring you peace.
Very soon you will be able to go home again.'
The children stared at him, as if they did not understand what he had said.
Very likely this was so, because his French was very bad.