In one little town near Clearmont we came in for a strange echo of war. A woman in a high cart drove past quickly. I was talking with a woman of the inn.

There was silence, then an outburst from the handsome Sibyl-faced hostess who had two sons at war. “Think of it,” she said; “three of our soldiers were chased from the fight at Creil. They took refuge with her. She is rich and has a garden. She hid them in a hayloft and threw their uniforms in the garden. The Germans came. They slept in her house.

“They said: ‘We are forced to fight; it is not of our seeking. The French attacked us.’

“They found the uniforms. They put a pistol to her breast.

“‘We will shoot you if you do not say where these soldiers are.’

“She cried: ‘In the loft.’

“They shot them all—three traitors—and it would have been so easy to lie.”