“Prisoners?” I asked.

“All wounded, thank you,” was the courteous reply.

I sought out my friend the inn-keeper who held up his hands in astonishment, bade us enter and made us partake of a warm meal.  The first we had had since we left home!

“But how did you come to be spared?” I queried.

“Because I was good to them.”

“Bah!  How could you?”

“I didn’t intend to, but, you see, they tricked me.  It was early morning when half a dozen officers on horseback rode up to the door.  ‘Where are our Allies?’ they asked.

“I thought of course they were Englishmen.  The uniform was unfamiliar to me, but they all spoke perfect French.  Unwittingly I gave them the requested information, and they asked me to bring up some good wine.  Then they threw a gold piece on to the table, and when I had poured out my Burgundy, they begged me to touch glasses with them.

“’Ah, gentlemen, it is a pleasure to offer you the best I have.  Thank God, it is not for German stomachs!’

“To my surprise, an uproarious laugh greeted my statement and brought my glass down with a shock.

“‘Poor fellow!’ they tittered.  ’Come, drink to our success and the Kaiser’s health!’

“I think they realized my fright and agony.  They did not force me—­but laughed anew, drank and were gone.”

“What regiments drove them out?”

“The English. Quels gaillards! And clean!  Well!”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, they nearly used up all the water in Montreuil washing!”

“Do you know anything of Villiers?”

“No.  I spent most of my time in the cellar during the fight, and since they’ve been gone I’m living in terror lest they return.”

“Have you seen no one from down there?”

“No, not a soul.”

“Do you think Villiers was bombarded?”

He shrugged his shoulders.  “I know the English troops that were here headed in that direction.”

This suspense was too agonizing!  I fear I so abbreviated my stay at Montreuil that the good inn-keeper was offended.  I jumped on to my bicycle and knowing that the roads were now familiar to all, abandoned my little party, bidding them hurry to join me at home.

On, on I sped, through the slippery mud, looking neither right nor left, but straight ahead in the hope of recognizing a familiar face or form.

Twilight was deepening when I entered Bezu-le-Gury (our nearest home town), which seemed to show apparently but few signs of pillaging.  I did not even dismount to make inquiries, but pedaled on till I reached the summit of that long, long hill that leads straight down to my home.  Excitement lent a new impulse to my energy, and my heart thumped hard as I recognized familiar cottages still standing.  This raised my hopes and sent me rocket-like down that steep incline.

Still not a soul in sight—­no noise save that of the guns roaring in the distance.