Vaugirard was still using the glasses and John judged that he had not slept at all.
But in his own machine everybody was asleep except the man at the wheel.
The country had grown somewhat hillier, but its characteristics were the same, fertile, cultivated fields, a small wood here and there, clear brooks, and church spires shining in the dusk.

Both horse and foot advanced across the fields, but the roads were occupied by the motors, which John judged were carrying at least twenty thousand men and maybe forty thousand.
He was not sleepy now, and he watched the vast panorama wheel past.

He knew without looking at his watch that the night was nearly over, because he could already smell the dawn.

The wind was freshening a bit, and he heard its rustle in the leaves of a wood as they pushed through it.
Then came a hum and a whir, and a long line of men on motor cycles at the edge of the road crept up and then passed them.

One checked his speed enough to run by the side of John's car, and the rider, raising his head a little, gazed intently at the young American.