“Hark!” hissed George, just as we were dropping off to sleep.

We all sat up.

“There!  That’s the third bullet that’s landed on this roof!”

Ra-ta-pan-Ratapan!  There was no mistaking the sound—­even through the wind and rain that raged outside.

George crawled on his knees toward the opening, and a second later jumped back, clapping his hand to his head with a low shriek.

“He’s shot!” cried Julie.

I leaped forward, grabbed the lantern, and holding it to the spot, opened the boy’s clenched fingers.  As they parted, a heavy horse chestnut burr fell to the floor with a loud thump!

We were too nervous to appreciate the humor of the situation, and had some little difficulty composing ourselves to rest.

As we approached Coulommiers the next morning the horrors of war became more and more evident.  On both sides of the roadway the fields were strewn with bay and straw.  Every ten paces the earth was burned or charred, and in some places the smoke still rose from dying campfires.  Bones, bottles and tin preserve cans in extraordinary quantities were strewn in every direction, and a half mile before we reached the town itself, a dead horse lay abandoned in a ditch.

At this point we were hailed by a party of bedraggled refugees who warned us that it would be useless to try to enter Coulommiers.

“We’re from Neuilly—­St. Front, on our way home, but there doesn’t seem much chance of our getting any further.  The place is in the hands of the military authorities—­with orders to let no one pass.”

We halted, and George went on ahead and interviewed a sentry, returning with a negative reply, and the information that Coulommiers was in a pretty mess after the looting.

“It can’t be worse than La Ferte Gauche.” And above the almost deafening roar of the cannon an elderly man told us bow his caravan had been caught by the Germans, stripped of everything they possessed, separated from their women folk, and with armed sentries back of them had been forced to work at the building of a temporary bridge to replace the one the French had blown up.

“I got off easy—­with only a few welts from a raw-hide,” he murmured, “but my brother (and he pointed to a very stout masculine figure rolled in a blanket and sitting motionless on the steps of an abandoned road house)—­“my brother’s nearly done for!  You see he’s near-sighted and not used to manual labor, and every time he missed his nail with the hammer, the German coward would jab him in the ribs with the point of his bayonet.  Seventy-two wounds!”

“And your women?”

“God knows what they did to them!  My wife hasn’t stopped sobbing since we met.  She’s dazed—­I can’t make her talk.”

As he rambled on with his haphazard story, glad of fellow sympathy, I spied a line of British Army Supply carts advancing up the road.  The leader came to a halt and getting down, the driver entered the first of the abandoned dwellings before which we were standing.  Presently he reappeared.