The birds were singing.  But otherwise it was very still.  I walked out on the lawn.  Little lines of white smoke were rising from a few chimneys at Joncheroy and Voisins.  The towns on the plain, from Monthyon and Penchard on the horizon to Mareuil in the valley, stood out clear and distinct.  But after three days of activity, three days with the soldiers about, it seemed, for the first time since I came here, lonely; and for the first time I realized that I was actually cut off from the outside world.  All the bridges in front of me were gone, and the big bridge behind me.  No communication possibly with the north, and none with the south except by road over the hill to Lagny.  Esbly evacuated, Couilly evacuated, Quincy evacuated.  All the shops closed.  No government, no post-office, and absolutely no knowledge of what had happened since Wednesday.  I had a horrible sense of isolation.

Luckily for me, part of the morning was killed by what might be called an incident or a disaster or a farce—­just as you look at it.  First of all, right after breakfast I had the proof that I was right about the Germans.  Evidently well informed of the movements of the English, they rode boldly into the open.  Luckily they seemed disinclined to do any mischief.  Perhaps the place looked too humble to be bothered with.  They simply asked—­one of them spoke French, and perhaps they all did—­where they were, and were told, “Huiry, commune of Quincy.”  They looked it up on their maps, nodded, and asked if the bridges on the Marne had been destroyed, to which I replied that I did not know,—­I had not been down to the river.  Half a truth and half a lie, but goodness knows that it was hard enough to have to be polite.  They thanked me civilly enough and rode down the hill, as they could not pass the barricade unless they had wished to give an exhibition of “high school.”  Wherever they had been they had not suffered.  Their horses were fine animals, and both horses and men were well groomed and in prime condition.

The other event was distressing, but about that I held my tongue.

Just after the Germans were here, I went down the road to call on my new French friends at the foot of the hill, to hear how they had passed the night, and incidentally to discover if there were any soldiers about.  Just in the front of their house I found an English bicycle scout, leaning on his wheel and trying to make himself understood in a one-sided monosyllabic dialogue, with the two girls standing in their window.

I asked him who he was.  He showed his papers.  They were all right—­an Irishman—­Ulster—­Royal Innisfall Fusiliers—­thirteen years in the service.