"Wee."
"Thank you, Djack."
She leaned a trifle forward in the cart, her dimpled elbows on her knees, the reins sagging.
Blue and rosy jays flew up before them, fluttering away through the thickets; a bullfinch whistled sweetly from a thorn bush, watching them pass under him, unafraid.
"You see," she said, half to herself, "I had to come. Who could refuse our wounded? There is no bell-master in our department; and only one bell-mistress.... To find anyone else to play the Nivelle carillon one would have to pierce the barbarians' lines and search[pg 198] the ruins of Flanders for a Beiaardier—a Klokkenist, as they call a carillonneur in the low countries.... But the Mayor asked it, and our wounded are waiting. You understand, mon ami Djack, I had to come."
He nodded.
She added, naïvely:
"God watches over our trenches. We shall be quite safe in Nivelle."
A dull boom shook the sunlit air. Even in the cart they could feel the vibration.
An hour later, everywhere ahead of them, a vast, confused thundering was steadily increasing, deepening with every ominous reverberation.