“Oh, yes, of course I shall pray for you,” she answered, softly, as she turned towards us.

We came out on a long passage, bare and whitewashed.  Half a dozen doors could be distinguished at regular intervals, all alike.  Sister Gabrielle opened one of them, and we followed her in.  We found ourselves in a small room, austerely furnished with two little iron bedsteads, two little deal tables, and two rush chairs.  Above each bed there was a crucifix, with a branch of box attached to it.  Each table had a tiny white basin and a tiny water-jug.  All this was very nice, and amply sufficient for us.  Everything was clean, bright, and polished.

“Thank you, Sister; we shall be as comfortable as possible.  But, one thing, we shall sleep like tops.  Will there be any one to wake us?”

“At what time do you want to get up?”

“At six, Sister, punctually, as soldiers must, you know.”

“Oh! then I will see to it.  We have Mass at four o’clock every morning.”

“At four o’clock!” exclaimed B.  “Every morning!  Very well, Sister, to show you we are not miscreants, wake us at half-past three, and we will go to Mass too.”

“But it isn’t allowed.  It is our Mass, in our chapel.  No, no, you must sleep....  Get to bed quickly.  Good-night.  I will wake you at six o’clock.”

“Good-night, Sister Gabrielle; good-night....  We shall be so comfortable.  You see, you had some spare beds, after all.”

“Oh, yes, we had.  One can always manage somehow.”

And she went off, shutting the door behind her.

And now B. and I thought of nothing but the luxury of sleeping in a bed.  How delightful it would be after our sleepless nights in the fogs of the trenches!

But what was that noise resounding through the convent?  What was that knocking and those wailing cries?  There was some one at the door, hammering at the knocker, some one weeping and sobbing in the dark.  I opened my window, and leant out.  But the front door had already been opened, and a figure slipped in hurriedly.  The sobs came up the stairs to our door, and women’s voices, Sister Gabrielle’s voice, speaking Flemish, then another voice, sounding like a death-rattle, trying in vain to pronounce words through choking sobs.  How horrible that monotonous, inconsolable, continual wail was!  It went on for a short time, and then doors were opened and shut, the voices died away, and suddenly the noise ceased.

B. had already got into bed, and, from under the sheets, he begged me, in a voice muffled by the bed-clothes, to put the candle out quickly.  But I was haunted by that moaning, though I could not hear it any longer.  I wanted to know what tragedy had caused those sobs.  I could not doubt that the horrible war was at the bottom of it.  And yet we were a long way from the firing line.  My curiosity overcame my fatigue.  I put on my jacket and went out, taking the candle with me.  I ran down the two staircases, and my footsteps seemed to wake dismal echoes in the silent convent.