At the other end of the village stood a ruined convent from which the nuns had not yet departed. They educated the village children. The little ones went to school daily, their books and respirators under their arms. The classroom was in the cellar of the Convent. As the men passed the Convent, they saw a nun, dressed in blue homespun, white frontlet and black veil, standing at the door throwing crumbs to the doves which fluttered about her feet. In one hand she held a rosary; no doubt she was saying her prayers. There was France personified, France great and fearless, a martyr unsubdued! The sight was a tonic to the men. Unable to resist the impulse, they gave vent to a rousing cheer. A look of perplexity overspread the woman's face, she gazed at the soldiers for a moment, then throwing the remaining crumbs to the birds she retreated hurriedly into the Convent.
"Wot a fine woman that one is," said Spudhole. "Gawd, there's somefin' in 'em, you know. An' they don't do it for show, neither. Well, we'll 'ave another song now, one respectable like. Not one that we wouldn't want good people to 'ear. 'Ow about 'Little Grey 'Ome in the West'?"
In the late afternoon the men arrived at the village in which they were to billet. The battalion marched down the main street dog-tired and glad that the march was at an end. The wineshops were open and soldiers could be seen sitting on the wine barrels, smoking and drinking. At the corner of one side street, a cook was washing his face at a pump and half-a-dozen merry little children were flinging pebbles at him. When a pebble hit him, he would bend down, raise a mess-tin of water and fling it at the mischievous rascals. A party of soldiers came out from an alley, bearing between them three dixies of hot, steaming tea. They were indulging in idle banter and seemed very pleased with themselves—their eyes glowed with happiness.
At the door of an estaminet stood the patronne gossiping with a neighbour and laughing heartily over something. Another party of children were hopping over lines marked with chalk on the pavement and chanting in unison a song of which Bowdy could catch a few lines:—
"A l'école dans le ville,
A l'école dans le ville,
A l'école,
A l'école,
A l'école dans le ville."
Bowdy's platoon came to a halt in the square, the company cook who came there long in advance of the battalion, was pouring fistfuls of tea in a dixie which stood on a field kitchen. He was red of face as a lobster, and a smile of satisfaction lit up his genial countenance when he saw the men.
"You look pleased with yourself," Bowdy said.
"So will you be pleased," said the man, "when you get your tea after a little. I've made it well, extra strong, and Spudhole has just received a parcel from home."
"The post is up?" Bubb asked.
"There's a letter for you, as well as a parcel," said the cook. "And we are going back for a rest to-morrow night, for a month or six weeks."