"What is the use of staying?" asked an old man querulously. "They'll burn everything just the same, and I'd rather find myself ruined and roofless here, but free, rather than back yonder where I should be in the hands of the Germans. Besides, I've my daughter-in-law to think of—the wife of my son, who is a gunner like you. She's with child—seven months gone—and when she heard the guns begin yesterday the pains came on. At first I thought she was going to be confined; but it passed off. But I thought we had better leave at once. These beasts of Germans, who violate and disembowel women ... who knows whether they would have respected her condition?... Last night we found a road-mender's hut to sleep in, but I don't know what we shall do to-night.... And I'm afraid she'll get ill. Just now she's sleeping in the cart. I must take care that she doesn't get ill! My son left her in my charge."
Pointing in the direction our column was following, I asked the old man:
"Where does this road lead to?"
"Where?" he replied, a wrathful look suddenly coming into his eyes. "Why, Châlons and Paris ... the whole of France!"
And, shaking his head, he added bitterly:
"Oh, my God!"
"You see they're half again as many as we are."
He did not answer immediately, but, after a moment or two, he said:
"I saw '70.... It's just the same as in '70."