Singularly white and peaceful were those small steadings of Belgium

in the night hours--until cruel dawn showed them for what they

were--skeletons of dead homes, clothed only at night with wraithlike

roofs and chimneys; ghosts of houses, appearing between midnight and

cock crow.

Jean had not Henri's eyes nor his recklessness nor his speed, for that

matter. Now and then he saw the small appearing and disappearing lights

on some small rise. He would reach the spot, with such shelter as

possible, to find only a sugar-beet field, neglected and unplowed.

Then, one night, tragedy came to the little house of mercy.




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