"Hark!" hissed George, just as we were dropping off to sleep.
We all sat up.
"There! That's the third bullet that's landed on this roof!"
Ra-ta-pan-Ratapan! There was no mistaking the sound—even through the wind and rain that raged outside.
George crawled on his knees toward the opening, and a second later jumped back, clapping his hand to his head with a low shriek.
"He's shot!" cried Julie.
I leaped forward, grabbed the lantern, and holding it to the spot, opened the boy's clenched fingers. As they parted, a heavy horse chestnut burr fell to the floor with a loud thump!
We were too nervous to appreciate the humor of the situation, and had some little difficulty composing ourselves to rest.
As we approached Coulommiers the next morning the horrors of war became more and more evident. On both sides of the roadway the fields were strewn with bay and straw. Every ten paces the earth was burned or charred, and in some places the smoke still rose from dying campfires. Bones, bottles and tin preserve cans in extraordinary quantities were strewn in every direction, and a half mile before we reached the town itself, a dead horse lay abandoned in a ditch.
At this point we were hailed by a party of bedraggled refugees who warned us that it would be useless to try to enter Coulommiers.