They walked around for over an hour, for this was the first chance they had had to look over this particular town. During the winter at the front they had had an opportunity to go back to two other ruined places, but at that time the ruins had been covered with a thick mantle of snow, so that they had seen comparatively little.
Walking along one of the streets, which was still piled high with the debris of the last bombardment, Dave and his chums had occasion to walk under what remained of a bridgeway running from one building across the road to another.
“It’s queer that bridge wasn’t knocked down by the bombardment,” remarked Roger, as he surveyed the ruin left on all sides.
“Some of these old stoneworks are remarkably substantial,” returned Dave. “The engineers of those days certainly knew their business. Under ordinary circumstances a bridge like this will last for thousands of years.”
They came out on the other side of the bridge and here paused to look around again. Then, as Dave happened to glance upward, he gave a sudden cry of alarm:
“Look out there!”
As he spoke there came down on their heads a perfect shower of dirt, consisting mostly of pulverized lime and cement. Then, before they could move, another shower of the same stuff descended upon them.
“Great Cæsar! do you suppose those buildings are going to fall?” cried Phil. Some of the dust had got into his eyes, temporarily blinding him.
“No, nothing is falling,” answered Dave quickly. “That stuff came from the top of the bridgeway and was thrown down on us.”
“Hi there! Stop that!” yelled Roger, and then repeated his words in French.