It was the house of
God, but it was filled with the cruelty of life, and those statues seemed
to mock at men's faith.
In Furnes the news of the danger seemed to have been scented by
the people. They had packed a few things into bundles and made
ready to leave their homes. In the convent where I had helped to
wash up and to fill the part of odd-job man when I was not out with
the "flying column," the doctors and nurses were already loading the
ambulances with all their cases. The last of the wounded was sent
away to a place of safety. He was a man with a sabre-cut on his
head, who for four days had lain quite still, with a grave Oriental face,
which seemed in the tranquillity of death.
A group of nuns pleaded to be taken with the doctors and nurses.
They could help in the wards or in the kitchen--if only they might go
and escape the peril of the German soldiery.
I went across the square to my own room in the Hotel de la
Couronne, and put a few things together. A friend of mine who helped
me told the story of a life--the mistakes that had nearly ruined it, the
adventures of a heart. A queer conversation at a time when the
enemy was coming down the road. The guns were very loud over
Wulpen way.
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