The lads were hardly stretched out when another motor drew up before the gate.  This one contained besides three privates a young officer with his arm in a sling, and he asked if we could give them water.  Leon told them that they would be very welcome if they would care to come in and rest—­there were already a half-dozen wounded asleep in the house.  At these words the lieutenant jumped down and asked for the medicin-chef.  He was rather startled when I appeared, and told him that there was no military authority as yet installed at the chateau.

“Then I must take all the responsibility of the men,” he said very kindly but firmly.  “I’m sorry, but they cannot remain here.  I must deliver them safe at some big center outside the zone of operations.”

The time had come for questions—­and I learned with amazement that Liege had fallen, Belgium was invaded, and that hard fighting was going on at St. Quentin, but eighty miles away.  “The cannon of yesterday was no target practice,” thought I. The men all seemed so hopeful, though, that we never felt a qualm.

“As you will, Monsieur,” I said, and the weary boys were wakened and hurried off before we had time to ask names, addresses or any further details.

All this had transpired so rapidly that we had had no time to call in our assistants, and presently Madame Guix and I found ourselves alone in the empty vestibule.

IV

Nothing further happened that afternoon.  Madame Guix’s course went on as usual, with perhaps a little more animation in the conversation, and much speculation as to when and where those who had stopped at the chateau had been wounded.  No one really knew.  To tell the truth, though later Madame Guix and I had asked them, the soldiers themselves had but a very indistinct idea of time and date or whereabouts.

That night I was awakened by the low rumbling of heavy carts on the road in front of the chateau.  Fancying that perhaps it was artillery on its way to the front, I put on my dressing gown and went as far as the gate.  There in the pale moonlight I beheld a long stream of carriages and wagons of every description piled high with household goods, and filled with women and children.  The men walked beside the horses to prevent collision, for as far as eye could see, the lamentable cortege extended down the hill.

What did this mean?

“Who are you?” I called to one of the men as they passed.

“Belgians—­refugees.”

Refugees!  My mind flew back to descriptions of the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, when so many people fled for their lives!  What nonsense!  Were we not in the twentieth century?  Wasn’t there a Peace Palace at The Hague?  My thoughts became muddled.

Opening the gate, I went out and accosted another man.

“Won’t you come in and rest?”