“No, we can’t.  We must make our twenty miles by dawn—­and rest during the heat of the day.”

“But why do you leave home?”

“Because the savages burned us out!”

Bah, the man must be dreaming!

I turned back and addressed myself to another: 

“What’s your hurry?” I queried

“They’re on our heels!” came the reply.

Surely this one was madder than the other!

A third did not deign to reply, sturdily marching on ahead, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him.

On top of a farm cart half filled with bay I saw the prostrate form of a woman with two others kneeling beside her ministering to her wants.  In the trap that followed was the most sorrowful group of old men and middle-aged women I ever hope to see.  All were sobbing.  Besides them rode two big boys on bicycles.  I stopped one of these.

“What’s the matter with her?” I questioned, pointing to the woman on the cart.

“She’s crazy.”

“?”

“Yes, lost her mind.”

“How, when, where?”

“Two days ago, when we left X. (Try as I may, I cannot recall the name of the little Belgian town be mentioned.) She was ill in bed with a fever when the Germans set fire to the place—­barely giving us time to hoist her into the cart.  Her husband lingered behind to scrape a few belongings together.  In spite of our efforts, she would stand up on the cart, and suddenly we heard an explosion and she saw her house burst into flame.  She fainted.  Outside in the woods we waited an hour, but her husband never came.  Perhaps it’s just as well, for when she woke up her mind was a blank!”

Ye gods!  I rubbed my eyes.  It couldn’t be possible that all this was true!  I was asleep!  It was merely a horrible nightmare.  But no—­the carts rolled on in the pale moonlight carrying their heavy burdens of human misery.

It was more than I could stand.  All thought of sleep had vanished, so I went and woke Madame Guix.  We dressed and descended to the kitchen, where with a few smoldering embers, we soon managed to light a good fire.  Water was set to boil and in half an hour’s time we carried out to the bridge two huge pails of hot coffee, a pail of cold water, and one of wine.  No one refused our offerings, and the hearty “God bless you’s” of those kindly souls brought tears to our eyes more than once.

Dawn, Monday, August 31st, found us still at our posts.  I rang the farm bell, assembled my servants, and told them we would abandon all but the most necessary farm work and minister to the wants of the refugees.  By eight o’clock they had peeled and prepared vegetables enough to fill two huge copper pots, and the soup was set to boil.  And still the long line of heavy vehicles followed one another down the road:  moving vans, delivery wagons, huge drays, and even little three-wheeled carts drawn by dogs, rolled on towards the south.