He jabbed in the needle, and then handing it with a phial to me:  “Here—­take this.  I’m clearing out.  Got a wife and baby to save.  Keep his heart going—­there’s a ghost of a chance.  Adieu!”

I stood petrified.

“Take him away, I’m closing up!  Take him away—­” screamed the hostess, who had recovered from her swoon.

I looked at the old man who had brought the boy.

“Where are you going with your cart?”

“To Coulommiers—­to save my sister-in-law and her children.”

“Good God, man!  Can’t you see that if this boy was wounded at Amillis your road to Coulommiers is cut off!”

“It may not be.”

“There’s no time to argue.  My wagons are full to overflowing.  Are you going to let this boy stay and be finished by the Germans, or are you going to let me put him in your cart and drive to a hospital?”

“But Provins must be occupied by this time.  It’s east of here.”

“I never had any intention of going there.  I’m heading for Melun.”

“Melun?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens!  That’s seventy kilometers!  My poor sister-in-law!  My horse!” wailed the old fellow.

“Now then—­one, two, three—­” said I, gently patting my Browning which I had drawn from my outside pocket.  “Will you do it gracefully?  That’s right.  Now stop your crying.  I’ll release you as soon as I can find someone else to take me on.  The important thing is to get out of here and quick!  It may be too late now.”

The boys had fetched a mattress, had found pillows and a sheet, somewhere, and gently we laid the dying man on the old farm cart.

“You boys take your bikes and go ahead.  Tell the refugees you meet to pull to the right and not encumber the whole road.  We’re rushing a wounded man to the hospital.  When I think you’ve got the way clear I’ll drive on full speed.  Tell our carts to head for Melun and keep on going till they get there.  I can’t bother with them.  We’ll meet at the first bridge over the Seine.”

They departed, and climbing in beside my patient, who writhed in agony, now lurching from one side, now rolling to the other, I tried to make him as comfortable as possible.  All the other carts had departed ere we got away, and my tearful driver kept on grumbling and lamenting.

Two hundred yards from the hotel, where the road makes a sharp turn, we halted abruptly, for we had come upon a group composed of my boy George and three French chasseurs.  Two were on horseback, their naked swords glittering in the sunlight; the third on a bicycle—­and all three, as well as George, were shrieking excitedly at a phlegmatic Tommy Atkins who, seated on a milestone, was calmly smoking his pipe.  Behind him, his horse was peacefully nibbling grass.  At the sight of my armlet and the agitated white sheet in the wagon, the chasseurs approached in haste.

“What have you got there?  Our comrade, Ballandreau?”