They slept that night under the edge of a straw-stack in the meadow near the river, and though they were homeless wanderers without a roof to cover them, they slept well, and awakened next morning to the music of bird-songs instead of to the sound of guns and the whistling of shells.

IX.  THE FOREIGN LEGION

Fortunately for our pilgrims the weather remained clear and unusually warm for the season of year, and they were able to continue their journey the following day in comfort.  That night they slept in a cowshed, where no cows had been since the Germans passed through so many months before, and on the morning of the third day they reached the large market town which marked the junction of the little river upon which the village of Fontanelle was situated with the Aisne.

Mother Meraut was now upon familiar territory, among the scenes of her childhood.  She had often come here with her father when he had brought a load of produce to sell in the town market.  Here they disembarked, bought a load of provisions, and once more resumed their journey.  Progress from this point on was slower than that of previous days, for now the current was against them.  Father and Mother Meraut took turns at the oars, and they had gone some four or five miles up the stream when they came in sight of something quite unfamiliar to Mother Meraut.  Stretching across the level meadows beside the river, as far, as the eye could see, were rows and rows of tents.  Companies of soldiers in French uniforms were drilling in an open field.  Groups of cavalry horses were herded in an enclosure, and everywhere there were the activities of a great military encampment.

“It’s a French training-camp,” cried Father Meraut, and he waved his cap on the end of an oar and shouted “Vive la France” at the top of his lungs.  Pierre and Pierrette waved and shouted too, and Mother Meraut, caught by the general excitement, snatched up Jacqueline, who had been reposing in the basket, and frantically waved her.  Some soldiers answered their signal, and shouted to them.

Father Meraut looked puzzled.  “That’s not French,” he said; “I can’t understand what they say.  But they have on French uniforms!  I wonder what regiment it can be.  I’m going to find out.”

“We’re not far from Fontanelle now,” said Mother Meraut; “don’t you think we’d better go on?”

“We can’t get there without stopping somewhere to eat, anyway,” said Father Meraut.  “It’s already eleven o’clock, and I’d rather find out about the soldiers than eat.”  So they tied the Ark to a willow tree and went ashore.

In a moment more they were in a city of soldiers, and Father Meraut was making friends with some of the men who were lounging near the cook-house, sniffing the savory smell of soup which issued from it in appetizing gusts.  Pierre and Pierrette sniffed too, and even Mother Meraut could not help saying appreciatively, “That cook knows how to make soup.”  Pierre laid his hand upon his stomach and smacked his lips.  “Pierre,” said his mother, reprovingly, “where are your manners, child?”