"Thank God, the British have come back!" she said in excellent English.
"No, Mem; not yet. It's just me, Private Galbraith, 'C' Company, 3rd Battalion, Lennox Highlanders. Ye keep some bad lots in this toun."
"Alas! what can we do? The place is full of spies, and they will stir up the dregs of the people and make Ypres a hell. Oh, why did the British go? Our good men are all with the army, and there are only old folk and wastrels left."
"Rely upon me, Mem," said Galbraith stoutly. "I was just settin' off to find your Provost."
She puzzled at the word, and then understood.
"He has gone!" she cried. "The Maire went to Dunkirk a week ago, and there is no authority in Ypres."
"Then we'll make yin. Here's the minister. We'll speir at him."
An old priest, with a lean, grave face, had come up.
"Ah, Mam'selle Omèrine," he cried, "the devil in our city is unchained. Who is this soldier?"
The two talked in French, while Galbraith whistled and looked at the sky. A shrapnel shell was bursting behind the cathedral, making a splash of colour in the November fog. Then the priest spoke in careful and constrained English.