Troy began to marvel again at the spell of France—his France! Here was a girl who had certainly not come in quest of vulgar excitement, as so many did: Sophy had always kept herself scornfully aloof from the pretty ghouls who danced and picnicked on the ruins of the world. He knew that her motives, so jealously concealed, must have been as pure and urgent as his own. France, which she hardly knew, had merely guessed at through the golden blur of a six weeks' midsummer trip, France had drawn her with an irresistible pressure; and the moment she had felt herself free she had come. "Whither thou goest I will go; . . . thy people shall be my people . . ." Yes, France was the Naomi-country that had but to beckon, and her children rose and came . . .

Troy was exceedingly tired; he stretched himself on the dusty bank, and the noise of the road traffic began to blend with the cannonade in his whirling brain. Suddenly he fancied the Germans were upon him. He thought he heard the peppering volley of machine-guns, shouts, screams, rifle-shots close at hand . . .

He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

What he had heard was the cracking of whips and the shouting of carters urging tired farm-horses along. Down a by-road to his left a stream of haggard country people was pouring from the direction of the Marne. This time only a few were in carts: the greater number were flying on their feet, the women carrying their babies, the old people bent under preposterous bundles, blankets, garden utensils, cages with rabbits, an agricultural prize framed and glazed, a wax wedding-wreath under a broken globe. Sick and infirm people were dragged and shoved along by the older children: a goitred idiot sat in a wheelbarrow pushed by a girl, and laughed and pulled its tongue . . .

In among the throng Troy began to see the torn blue uniform of wounded soldiers limping on bandaged legs . . . Others too, not wounded, elderly haggard territorials, with powder-black faces, bristling beards, and the horror of the shell-roar in their eyes . . . One of them stopped near Troy, and in a thick voice begged for a drink . . . just a drop of anything, for God's sake. Others followed, pleading for food and drink. "Gas, gas," . . a young artilleryman gasped at him through distorted lips . . . The Germans were over the Marne, they told him, the Germans were coming. It was hell back there, no one could stand it . . .

Troy ransacked the ambulance, found water, brandy, biscuits, condensed milk, and set up an impromptu canteen. But the people who had clustered about him were pushed forward by others, crying: "Are you mad to stay here? The Germans are coming!"—and in a feeble panic they pressed on.