he asked Joan was could she speak German.  Finding that she could, he had hurried her across the yard into a small hut where patients who had borne their operation successfully awaited their turn to be moved down to one of the convalescent hospitals at the base.  Among them was a German prisoner, an elderly man, belonging to the Landwehr; in private life a photographer.  He also had been making experiments in the direction of colour photography.  Chance had revealed to the two men their common interest, and they had been exchanging notes.  The German talked a little French, but not sufficient; and on the day of Joan’s arrival they had reached an impasse that was maddening to both of them.  Joan found herself up against technical terms that rendered her task difficult, but fortunately had brought a dictionary with her, and was able to make them understand one another.  But she had to be firm with both of them, allowing them only ten minutes together at a time.  The little Frenchman would kneel by the bedside, holding the German at an angle where he could talk with least danger to his wound.  It seemed that each was the very man the other had been waiting all his life to meet.  They shed tears on one another’s neck when they parted, making all arrangements to write to one another.

“And you will come and stay with me,” persisted the little Frenchman, “when this affair is finished”—­he made an impatient gesture with his hands.  “My wife takes much interest.  She will be delighted.”

And the big German, again embracing the little Frenchman, had promised, and had sent his compliments to Madame.

The other was a young priest.  He wore the regulation Red Cross uniform, but kept his cassock hanging on a peg behind his bed.  He had pretty frequent occasion to take it down.  These small emergency hospitals, within range of the guns, were reserved for only dangerous cases:  men whose wounds would not permit of their being carried further; and there never was much more than a sporting chance of saving them.  They were always glad to find there was a priest among the staff.  Often it was the first question they would ask on being lifted out of the ambulance.  Even those who professed to no religion seemed comforted by the idea.  He went by the title of “Monsieur le Pretre:”  Joan never learned his name.  It was he who had laid out the little cemetery on the opposite side of the village street.  It had once been an orchard, and some of the trees were still standing.  In the centre, rising out of a pile of rockwork, he had placed a crucifix that had been found upon the roadside and had surrounded it with flowers.  It formed the one bright spot of colour in the village; and at night time, when all other sounds were hushed, the iron wreaths upon its little crosses, swaying against one another in the wind, would make a low, clear, tinkling music.  Joan would sometimes lie awake listening to it.  In some way she could not explain it always brought the thought of children to her mind.