At this point the eternal feminine asserted itself in the Bonnie Lassie.  “I told you there was something,” she murmured triumphantly.

“Hush!” said I.

“I am glad to find that he had one true defender here,” pursued the biographer of Plooie.  “Though he could not fight in the ranks there was use for him.  There was use for all true sons of Belgium in those black days.  He was made driver of a—­a charette; I do not know if you have them in your great city?” He paused, and I guessed that the rumble of heavy wheels on the asphalt, heard near by, had come opportunely.  “Ah, yes; there is one.”

“A dump-cart,” supplied the Bonnie Lassie.

“Merci, Madame.  A dump-cart.  It is perhaps not an evidently glorious thing to drive a dump-cart for one’s country—­unless one makes it so.  But it was the best the little Garin could do.  His legs were what you call quaint—­I have already told you.  He was faithful and hard-working.  They helped build roads near the front, the little Garin and his big cart.”

“Not precisely safety-first,” whispered the Bonnie Lassie to me, maliciously.

“You are interrupting the story,” said I with dignity.

“One day he was driving a load of mud through a village street.  Here on this side is a hospital.  There on that side is another hospital.  Down the middle of the road walks an idiot of a sergeant carrying a new type of grenade with which we were experimenting.  One moves a little lever—­so.  One counts; one, two, three, four, five.  One throws the grenade, and at the count of ten, all about it is destroyed, for it is of terrible power.  The idiot sergeant sets down the grenade in the middle of the road between the two hospitals full of the helplessly wounded.  For what?  Perhaps to sneeze.  Perhaps to light a cigarette.  Heaven only knows, for the sergeant has the luck to be killed next day by a German shell, before he can be court-martialed.  As he sets down the grenade, the little lever is moved.  The sergeant loses his head.  He runs, shouting to everybody to run also.

“But the hospitals, they cannot run.  And the wounded, they cannot run.  They can only be still and wait.  In the nearest hospital there is a visitor.  A great lady.  A great and greatly loved lady.”  The sad voice deepened and softened.

“I know,” whispered the Bonnie Lassie; “I can guess.”

“Yes.  But the little Garin, approaching on his big dump-cart, does not know.  He knows the danger, for he hears the shouts and sees the people escaping.  He sees the grenade, too.  A man running past him shouts, ’Turn your cart, you fool, and save yourself.’  Oh, yes; he can save himself.  That is easy.  But what of the people in the hospitals?  Who can save them?  The little Garin thinks hard and swiftly.  He drives his big dump-cart over the grenade.  He pulls the lever which dumps the mud.  The mud buries the grenade; much mud, very soft and heavy.  The grenade explodes, nevertheless.