’What happened then, we can’t exactly trace.  He must have been there all the winter.  He was deaf and dumb, from nerve-shock, and could give no account of himself at all.  The men of the farm, two unmarried sons, were good to him, but their old mother, whose family was German, always hated his being there.  She was in terror of the German military police who used to ride over the farm, and one day, when her sons were away, she took Mr. Sarratt’s uniform, his identification disk, and all the personal belongings she could find, and either burned or buried them.  The sons, who were patriotic Belgians, were however determined to protect him, and no doubt there may have been some idea of a reward, if they could find his friends.  But they were afraid of their tyrannical old mother, and of what she might do.  So at last they made up their minds to try somehow and get him over the French frontier, which was not far off, and through the German lines.  One of the brothers, whose name was Benoit Desalles, to whom they say poor Mr. Sarratt was much attached, went with him.  They must have had an awful time, walking by night, and hiding by day.  Mr. Sarratt’s wounds must have been in a bad state, for they were only half healed when he escaped, and they had been neglected all the winter.  So how he dragged himself the distance he did, the doctors can’t imagine.  And the peasants near the frontier from whom we have got what information we have, have no knowledge at all of how he and his Belgian guide finally got through the German lines.  But when they reached our lines, they were both, as Dr. Howson wrote to Miss Cookson, in German uniforms.  His people suppose that Benoit had stripped some German dead, and that in the confusion caused in the German line—­at a point where it ran through a Belgian village—­by a British raid, at night, they got across the enemy trenches.  And no doubt Benoit had local knowledge which helped.

’Then in the No Man’s Land, between the lines, they were under both shell and rifle-fire, till it was seen by our men that Benoit had his hands up, and that the other was wounded.  The poor Belgian was dragging Mr. Sarratt who was unconscious, and at last—­wasn’t it ill-luck?—­just as our men were pulling them into the trench, Benoit was shot through the head by a German sniper.  That, at least, is how we now reconstruct the story.  As far as Mr. Sarratt is concerned, we let it alone.  We have no heart to worry him.  Poor fellow—­poor, gallant, patient fellow!’

And the Sister’s strong face softened, as Bridget had seen it soften at Sarratt’s bedside.

‘And there is really no hope for him?’ asked Cicely after a time.  The Sister shook her head.