ason, began
sobbing as though her heart would break. I could see the moment not far
distant when our whole party, seized with fear, would become
panic-stricken, and that idea, together with the one of camping in the
sodden fields surrounded by grim death, was anything but reassuring.

"Come on," I urged. "Surely Barcy is not entirely deserted."

What mud! What a road--sometimes entirely gutted, sometimes so
obstructed with gasoline cans, hubs of wheels and scraps of iron, that I
was obliged to lead Cesar by the bridle, while the others would walk
ahead and clear a passage. Their progress was snail-like, for there was
little oil left in our lantern and they hesitated before casting the
refuse into the ditch for fear of profaning some unknown hero's grave.

And so, stumbling and halting, we came into Barcy. As we passed in
front of the battered church we could see the huge bronze bell lying
amid a pile of beams, at the foot of the belfry. The _cadran_ of the
clock tower was midway between the ruins of the edifice itself and those
of what had once been the town hall. Not a living soul was to be seen
anywhere. Stay--yes--there in front of us was a masculine figure.

I called "Monsieur!"

He halted an instant. Then shook his head and skulked away.

Through an oiled paper that had replaced the panes of a shattered window
in a house which no longer had a second story I caught sight of a
flickering light. I boldly knocked on the door.

"_Qui est la?_--" asked a high-pitched, trembling female voice.

"I, Madame H. of Villiers."

"I don't know you--go your way."

"But we are refugees."

"I have nothing left. _Allez-vous-en!_"

That was categorical, to say the least. So on we went, past the charred
ruins of one-time happy homes.

As we rounded a corner our lantern cast a dim glow on to the drawn
shutters of a half-collapsed structure.

"Stop a moment," said Julie; "there's something written on those
blinds."

I approached, and holding the light as close as possible I read the
following sign, chalked in huge white letters:

"Attention. No Loitering. Looters will be shot on the spot!"

That was the last straw, and though it was obvious that the warning was
intended for the troops now miles away, it sent us ahead with uncanny
celerity.

Our advance was short-lived, however, for it soon became evident that
our horses were fagged out. Yet where to go became an agonizing
question, for though we were s