B. sat up in his bed. I did the same, and told him what I had seen the evening before. He shook his head mournfully, and concluded:
"Well, ... it's war.... I hope they'll have a good breakfast ready for us."
We hurried through our dressing and ablutions, for we had to get back quickly to our quarters. As we came out of our room, lively and refreshed, we met Sister Gabrielle, who seemed to have been waiting for us. She asked us how we had slept, and, to stop the flood of eloquence that B. was on the point of letting loose, she said:
"That's right. You shall thank me later on. Come down now; your breakfast is waiting for you. It will get cold."
But, on passing the chapel, B. would insist on seeing it. Sister Gabrielle hesitated a moment, and then gave way, as you would to a child for the sake of peace. She opened the outer door, and smiled indulgently, as if anxious to humour all our whims. We passed through an anteroom, and then entered the chapel. It was quite small, only large enough to hold about twenty people. The walls were white, without any ornament, and panelled up to about the height of a man. The altar was extremely simple, and decorated with a few flowers. Some rush chairs completed the plenishings of the sanctuary where the good Sisters of Elverdinghe assembled every morning at four o'clock for prayers.
And, as we came out of this humble chapel, I noticed two mattresses, laid in a corner of the little anteroom.
"Who sleeps here, then, Sister?" I asked.
Sister Gabrielle turned as red as a poppy. I had to repeat my question twice, when, lowering her eyes, she answered:
"Sister Elizabeth—Sister Elizabeth ... and I."
"Sister Gabrielle, ... Sister Gabrielle, then that little room and those two little beds where we slept, were yours?"