“Come on,” I urged.  “Surely Barcy is not entirely deserted.”

What mud!  What a road—­sometimes entirely gutted, sometimes so obstructed with gasoline cans, hubs of wheels and scraps of iron, that I was obliged to lead Cesar by the bridle, while the others would walk ahead and clear a passage.  Their progress was snail-like, for there was little oil left in our lantern and they hesitated before casting the refuse into the ditch for fear of profaning some unknown hero’s grave.

And so, stumbling and halting, we came into Barcy.  As we passed in front of the battered church we could see the huge bronze bell lying amid a pile of beams, at the foot of the belfry.  The cadran of the clock tower was midway between the ruins of the edifice itself and those of what had once been the town hall.  Not a living soul was to be seen anywhere.  Stay—­yes—­there in front of us was a masculine figure.

I called “Monsieur!”

He halted an instant.  Then shook his head and skulked away.

Through an oiled paper that had replaced the panes of a shattered window in a house which no longer had a second story I caught sight of a flickering light.  I boldly knocked on the door.

“Qui est la?—­” asked a high-pitched, trembling female voice.

“I, Madame H. of Villiers.”

“I don’t know you—­go your way.”

“But we are refugees.”

“I have nothing left. Allez-vous-en!”

That was categorical, to say the least.  So on we went, past the charred ruins of one-time happy homes.

As we rounded a corner our lantern cast a dim glow on to the drawn shutters of a half-collapsed structure.

“Stop a moment,” said Julie; “there’s something written on those blinds.”

I approached, and holding the light as close as possible I read the following sign, chalked in huge white letters: 

“Attention.  No Loitering.  Looters will be shot on the spot!”

That was the last straw, and though it was obvious that the warning was intended for the troops now miles away, it sent us ahead with uncanny celerity.

Our advance was short-lived, however, for it soon became evident that our horses were fagged out.  Yet where to go became an agonizing question, for though we were still within the limits of the village, not a roof was to be seen.  There seemed to be but one thing to do, and so, halting, I fumbled in the bottom of the cart and brought forth a handful of dry straw, and my precious bottle of brandy.  Thanks to these, a match and a sheltering wall, a flame managed to blaze up, and from somewhere in the vicinity Julie procured a bundle of brush and an old broom.

With the heat our spirits rose.  The girls dried themselves as best they could before the welcome fire, and though still awed by our surroundings, we nibbled a crust of dry bread and some stale cheese.