ains, from which we were
separated by the valley of the Grand Morin, those same long columns of
dense black smoke rose lazily in the brilliant sunlight. Into some
determined spot the enemy was pouring a perfect rain of shot and shell,
and the dust rising after each explosion formed a curtain that blotted
out the rest of the landscape. Below, the _Senegalais_ had disappeared
in ambush, but now and again the distant clattering of the
_mitrailleuse_ told us they were at their deadly work. And to think,
all this was happening on ground we had traveled over only a few hours
since! And I had been fool enough to go back to Rebais--alone to
recover my dog!

I shuddered as I got down. What was the use of trying to hurry? We
couldn't go any faster than the horses, and if we overworked them now we
would have to rest longer later on. So, urging our poor old nags, we
trudged along the sun-baked roads between the high grown wheat fields of
the Brie country.

Still another couple of hours and we had reached Choisy-en-Brie, found a
stable for our animals, and we ourselves stretched out on our blankets
beneath the friendly shadow of the big stone church.

I had finished luncheon and was just dozing off when a motor horn roused
me from my lethargy. A second later I recognized Maitre Baudoin and his
wife, the latter holding their four-year-old daughter on her knees, her
grandmother sitting alone in the back seat which was piled high with
important documents, and their maid strapped to the steps of the car.

We set up a shout which stopped them. "We stayed until a shell burst on
the house next door, then we thought it was time to go,"' explained
Maitre Baudoin.

"What time did you leave Rebais?"

"Forty minutes ago. You'd better be moving, too."

"Sorry, but I can't. The horses must rest."

"Well, don't wait too long. Adieu."

"Adieu," and they were off.

I returned to my blanket and again was just closing my eyes when the
unexpected sound of Gregorian chant made me sit up. Nearer and nearer
it drew, louder and louder rose the priests' voices, and then a
much-befringed and flower-laden hearse, preceded by the clergy and
followed by the mourners (the men in evening dress and the women in
their Sunday clothes), rounded the corner, passed in front of us, and
halted before the main door of the church.

I couldn't help smiling. The incongruity of this pompous _enterrement
de premiere classe, en musique_, when the city