On the steps of the station, seated gun in hand, three soldiers sat playing a game of cards.  Across the street a sentry mounted guard in front of a large door over which floated a Red Cross flag.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Prisoners and wounded.”

“Can I be of any assistance?”

“Hardly—­only flesh wounds.”

I peeked into the courtyard.

In one corner lounging upon the ground were a dozen untidy, unshaven men, whom I recognized by their uniforms to be Germans.  One man cast an insolent glance toward me and turned his back.  Two others smiled and pointed toward the bread they held in their hands.  On some straw in a couple of drays lay five or six individuals, their arms in slings, their heads bandaged.

“Nothing serious,” explained a sergeant.  “We’re waiting for our men to clear up the tracks and the genie to throw a bridge across the canal.  Then we’ll evacuate them.”

He was neither sad nor triumphant.

“Were you in the battle?”

“Rather!”

“How did your regiment come off?”

“We’re all that are left—­forty-four of us,” and he pointed toward the station where work was rapidly progressing.

From them I procured some singe or army beef, and we halted an hour to rest the horses and eat our luncheon.  We were beginning to reach familiar territory and the idea of getting home put new life into our tired limbs, and made each moment of delay seem uselessly long.

From Lizy ours was a straight road and we made rapid progress.  The depressing signs of battle became fewer and fewer.  It was evident that the rush had been northwest, for while we encountered numerous proofs of the armies’ passage, graves and shells, trenches and corpses gradually began to disappear.  At Cocherel, however, the enemy had burned a grocery shop when they had failed to find what they wanted.  The few men who remained had suffered much from ill treatment and passing by the open gate of a splendid estate I cast a glance up the long avenue and saw a sight which gave me a pang at the heart.  On the green in front of the chateau lay a battered billiard table and a grand piano, both turned on end, and much the worse for having served as a defense against a rain of shot.  Around them were strewn broken furniture, pictures, linen and bottles in such a sorry mess that I dared not even think what Villiers might now look like.

Curiosity was quenched.  We cast a second glance, and turned our faces eastward.

The afternoon was well advanced when we reached Montreuil-aux-Lions, our home country.  We found that here less damage had been done from heavy artillery, but all the edifices had suffered from close-range rifle fire.  An English sentry was pacing up and down in front of the town hall.  Over the entrance was nailed a Turkish towel on which a Red Cross was stained with human blood!