Rebais was empty—­not even a tardy refugee straggled by the wayside, and before I reached the bakery I could hear the plaintive howls of my little brute.

What a joyful welcome I received.  What hilarious waggings of that little screw tail!  But, there was no time to be lost, for the problem now was how Betsy was to catch up with the procession.  She was too heavy for me to carry under my arm, and too old and puffy to be expected to follow a bicycle—­but it was one or the other, and tying her leash to the handle bar, off we started, after an encouraging pat on the head and the promise of a lump of sugar if she would only “be a good girl.”

On we sped, past the huge lumbering motorbuses, which terrified the poor animal who tugged vehemently at her string, at times almost choking herself.

In half an hour we had caught up with the caravan, and as I lifted poor exhausted Betsy on to the hay, Nini roused from her dozing and pointing to the east, said, “Oh, look! what a big fire!”

“You silly child, it’s the sun rising; go back to sleep,” I said, terrified by what I had seen, but unwilling to alarm the others uselessly.

At the skyline of an immense plain that stretched on our left, huge columns of flame burst heavenward, covered a moment later by dense black smoke.  Fortunately, however, the sun peeped over the horizon almost instantly, thereby diminishing the intensity of the conflagration.  But Nini was not to be thus hoodwinked.

“See,” she continued, “what funny little fluffy clouds those are!”

“Nini, if you don’t go to sleep at once you’ll have to get down and walk, and let one of the boys take your place.  They’ll be only too glad to, I know.”

Nini obeyed instantly.  She had come away with but one pair of shoes (in spite of my admonition to take all the footwear she possessed) and that pair of shoes pinched.

Funny little fluffy clouds indeed!  The shaking of the earth beneath my feet and a second of reflection told me, they were not clouds, before they would be directed westward was but shells—­and how long it would be a question that chilled the blood in my veins.

The town we were heading for—­La Ferte Gauche—­lay southeast.  Though I had no glass, it was evident that it was now under the enemies’ fire, and we might just as well run our necks into a noose as keep on in that direction.  It was southwest—­or nothing.

Without offering any explanation I rode ahead and told Leon to follow me.  Then turning abruptly to the right, I took the first side path that was wide enough for our cart wheels, and in and out, up and down, we followed it for over an hour, until coasting down a steep incline, I found myself in the midst of a delightful little village, nestled between two hills on the border of a river.

The shops were just opening and people were going about their work as if nothing unusual were happening.  They gazed in astonishment at this hatless bicyclist, who wore a Red Cross armlet, and when I went into the baker shop, I was filled with joy at the sight of all the crisp loaves lined up in their racks ready for delivery.