At present across this square a pathetic little company was marching, carrying tiny American flags.
They wore costumes of all colors and kinds, all degrees of vicissitude, yet somehow each one of the group of children had her own little bit of tricolor as well, so that the French and the America symbols of democracy were intimately mingled.
When the train finally stopped, the children, as if from an unseen signal, kneeled reverently down in the dust of the old square. There were about twenty of them, all children save one.
“What does that mean?” one of the soldiers in a car nearly opposite the square inquired of his companion.
“It means that those children are the war orphans of France and that they think we American soldiers have come to deliver them. If we needed anything more to make us want to fight like——” He stopped abruptly, ashamed perhaps of the huskiness in his voice.
The two young Americans, who were sitting beside each other, were both officers. The young man who had answered was the older and had dark hair, gray eyes and a grave, rather severe face. He wore the uniform of a first lieutenant. The other man had light hair, blue eyes, and delicate features, and although at present his expression was also serious, it was a gay, boyish face, without a look of responsibility. However, Hugh Kelley had lately graduated at West Point and received his commission as second lieutenant.
Both soldiers remained quiet, however, while the other men were crowding out the windows and doors to receive their gifts of food from French and American Red Cross nurses and to talk to the French children, who were now coming up close to the cars.
The attention of them both had been attracted by the appearance of a little French girl, the leader of the procession, who had come up near their window. She was not alone, but leading a French soldier by the hand. The man was slight and dark, although one could see only the lower part of his face, as the upper part was bandaged.
The little girl, who must have been about ten or eleven, made an expressive gesture with her hand, touching her head and suggesting a wound. She wished her new acquaintances to understand that whatever might be said her companion would comprehend nothing.
“He has been hurt, my officer,” she said, almost with a slight expression of pride.