"Mais, Madame—de grâce! C'est peut-être la vie ou la mort!"
The minute I've said it it sounds to me melodramatic and absurd. I am melodramatic and absurd, with my running feet, and my small figure and earnest, upturned face, standing under a Convent wall at midnight, and talking about la vie et la mort. It is too improbable. I am too improbable. I feel that I am making a fuss out of all proportion to the occasion. And I am sorry for frightening the poor lay sister all for nothing.
Very soon, down the south-east road, the Germans will be marching upon Ghent.
And I cannot realize it. The whole thing is too improbable.
But the lay sister has understood this time. She will go and wake the porteress. She is not at all frightened.
I wait a little longer, and presently the porteress opens the door. When she hears my message she goes away, and returns after a little while with one of the nuns.
They are very quiet, very kind, and absolutely unafraid. They say that Miss Ashley-Smith and her British wounded shall be ready before [?] two o'clock.
I go back to the "Flandria."
The Commandant, who went out to Melle in Tom's car, has not come back yet.
I think Ursula Dearmer and Mrs. Lambert have gone to bed. They are not taking the Germans very seriously.