"It's the sound of the guns that brings them out," says a French doctor learnedly. "This wolf has probably travelled hundreds of miles. And of course there are more. Oui, oui! C'est ça Certainly there will be more." "C'est ça, c'est ça!" agrees the priest. "Such a huge beast too!" says the Colonel. He is probably comparing it with a fox. I find myself mentally agreeing with Madame Caspiar that Germans are really preferable to wolves. The long, white, snow-covered road that leads back to the world seems endlessly long as I stare out of the Inn windows realizing that sooner or later I must traverse that long white lonely road across the plains before I can get to safety, and the nearest town. Are there more wolves in there, slinking ever nearer to the cities? That is what everyone seems to believe now. We see them in scores, in hundreds, prowling with hot breath in search of wounded soldiers, or anyone they can get. We are all undoubtedly depressed. Then a Provision "Motor" comes down that road, and out of it jumps a little, old, white-moustached man in a heavy sheepskin overcoat and red woollen gloves, carrying something wrapped in a shawl. He comes clattering into the Inn. His small black eyes are swimming with tears. "Mon Dieu!" he says, gulping some coffee and rum. "Give me a little hot milk, Madame! My poor monkey is near dying." A tiny, black, piteous face looks out of the shawl, and huskily the man with the red gloves explains that he has been for weeks trying to get his travelling circus out of the danger-zone. "The Army commandeered my horses. We had great difficulty in moving about. We wanted to get to Paris. All my poor animals have been terrified by the noises of the big guns. Especially the monkeys. They've all died except this one." "You poor little beast!" says the Colonel, bending down. He has seen men die in thousands, this gaunt Englishman with his eye in a sling. But his voice is infinitely compassionate as he looks with one eye at the little shivering creature, and murmurs again, "You _poor_ little brute!" "Yesterday," adds the man with the red gloves, "my trick wolf escaped. She was a beauty, and so clever. When the War began I used to dress her up as a French solider,--red trousers, red cap and all! _I s'pose you haven't seen a wolf, M'sieur, running about these parts?_" Nobody answers for a bit. We are all stunned. * * * * * But the old fellow brightens up when he hears that his wolf ate the rabbit. "Ah, but she was a clever wolf!" he cries excitedly. "Very likely the reason why she ate your Chou-chou was because she has played the part of a French soldier. _French soldiers always steal the rabbits!_" CHAPTER LIII BACK TO LONDON I am on my way back to London, grateful and glad to be once more on our side of the Channel. "Five days!" exclaims a young soldier in the train.