The scullery was warm and cosy, in spite of all the draughts.  Sitting back in a wooden chair, I nearly fell asleep, because I had had a long day in the fields and fatigue threatened to overwhelm me.  But I wakened with a start when a door opened, letting in a sudden blast of cold air and the noise of the beating rain, and then banged with violence.  I seemed to hear footsteps coming across the kitchen floor, and, with an eerie feeling of some new presence in the convent, I strode out of the scullery.  A queer little figure startled me.  It was a girl in man’s clothes, except for a white cap on her head, tight-fitting above her eyes.  She was dripping wet and caked in slimy mud, and she faltered forward a little and spoke in French.

“I am very wet.  And so tired and hungry!  If I could sleep here, on the
floor, and dry myself a little-----”

“Who are you?” I asked.  There seemed something uncanny in this little figure coming out of the wild night.

It appeared that she was one of two Belgian girls who since the beginning of the war had acted as infirmieres with the Belgian troops, giving the first aid in the trenches, carrying hot soup to them, and living with them under fire.  She seemed hardly more than a child, and spoke childishly in a pitiful way, while she twisted the corner of her jacket so that water came out and made a pool about her on the boards.  She dried herself in front of the fire and ate—­ravenously—­ some food which had been left on a side-table, and then lay down in a corner of the refectory, falling into the deepest sleep as soon as her head had touched the mattress.  She did not wake next morning, though fifty-five people made a clatter at the breakfast-table, and at four in the afternoon she was still sleeping, like a sick child, with her head drooping over the mattress.

20

That day, owing to the heavy rain in the night, the roads were slimy with mud, so that the cars skidded almost over the brim of the dykes.  There was more movement among the troops, less sitting about for orders.  Officers were riding up and down the roads, and wheeling into little groups for quick discussion.  Something was happening—­ something more than the ding-dong slam of the guns.  A regiment of Belgian infantry came plodding through the mud, covered with whitish clay even to their top-hats.  They were earth-men, with the blanched look of creatures who live below ground.  The news was whispered about that the enemy was breaking through along one of the roads between Nieuport and Fumes.  Then the report came through that they had smashed their way to Wulpen.

“We hope to hold them,” said an officer, “but Fumes is in danger.  It will be necessary to clear out.”

In consequence of this report, it was necessary to be quick in the search for the wounded who had been struck down in the night.  The medical men were resolute not to go until they had taken in all that could be removed in time.  A little crowd of them were in a small villa along the road.  They were wet to the skin and quite famished, without food or drink.  A car went back for hot coffee and bread.  There was another group of wounded in the church of Oudecapelle.