"Say, sister, give us a bite," called one young chap from his horse as he passed.
"Are you really hungry?"
"You bet!"
Without hesitating I offered my crust.
"Hurray for the girl with the red scarf!" called another. "Come on with us. We'll make room for you." "We need a mascot," and other similar jolly phrases passed from mouth to mouth as gaily the flower of young France went forth to death.
When finally they had disappeared I rushed across the street to find George and Emile (H.'s messenger) engaged in a conversation with the driver of an army supply wagon drawn up within an inch of the bakery steps. Beside him on the seat sat a huge dragoon, his bead done up in a blood-stained towel.
"We're lost," he was explaining. "Been cut off from our regiment for three days."
"Poor regiment!" I murmured, and calling the boys, I told Emile to wake the others and come down quickly to help hitch the horses. He was only gone a second, and I could hear him calling.
"Allons, allons, Madame part de suite."
Then he reappeared carrying a lantern.