Here a shell had burst on the road, in the midst of a bicycle squadron, scattering men and machines to the four winds of Heaven.  A little mound, a rough-hewn cross, marked the spot where some sixty soldiers lay in their last peaceful sleep, while the melee of tangled wire and iron which had once been machines, as well as blood-stained garments, bits of shell, and even human flesh, made a gruesome and indescribable picture.

Souvenirs?  The idea never entered my head.  And my kodak, which I had been so prompt to use to commemorate various events, seemed a vulgar, inquisitive instrument, and was left unheeded in the bottom of the cart.  Each step brought us face to face with the horrors of warfare.  Towards Villeroy a number of battered Parisian taxicabs gave us the first hint of General Gallieni’s clever maneuver which helped save the capital—­and then the wind brought towards us a nauseating odor, which paralyzed our appetites, and sent us doggedly onwards:  the stench of the battlefield.

The girls in the cart drew closer together, shivering, though the air was warm and muggy.  Even old Cesar seemed to feel the awe of that Valley of Shadow, and no one murmured as we passed the first bloated carcasses of dead horses and came upon that far more horrid sight—­human bodies—­swelled to twice their natural size, lying as death had met them, some in piles, others farther apart—­all unrecognizable, but once proud mothers’ petted darlings.  I think they were our enemies.  I did not stop to investigate; the flies bothered us so terribly, and long low mounds with red kepis piled upon them told of the graves of France’s defenders.  Far ahead I could discover groups of men with shovels, hastily burying those who remained.  To the right a lazy column of dense smoke rose reluctantly in the heavy air.  I fancied it came from a funeral pyre; we certainly smelled tar and petrol.  The ground beneath rocked with the thundering of the distant cannon, and as one peal burst louder a flock of jet black crows mounted heavenward, mournfully cawing in the semi-twilight.

So we continued, a silent, foot-sore, rain-soaked community.  With the growing remoteness of imminent danger came the reaction of all we had passed through, and deep down in our hearts we welcomed the idea of entering a village.

A village!  Alas!  As we reached the road leading to Barcy, there was a rift in the clouds, and a long golden ray shot through an enormous breach in the church tower, flickered a moment upon a group of roofless houses, and was gone.  Night closed in.

Our spirits sank.  Yvonne began to moan with agony, her sciatica had returned with the dampness, and Nini for some unknown reason, began sobbing as though her heart would break.  I could see the moment not far distant when our whole party, seized with fear, would become panic-stricken, and that idea, together with the one of camping in the sodden fields surrounded by grim death, was anything but reassuring.