"My poor child," he said to the girl, shaking his head, "the wounded at Nivelle were taken away during the night. They are fighting there now in the streets." "In Nivelle streets!" faltered the girl. "_Oui, mademoiselle._ Of the carillon little remains. The Boches have been shelling it since daylight. Turn again. And it is better that you turn quickly, because it is not known to us what is going on in that wooded district over there. For if they get a foothold in Nivelle on this drive they might cross this road before evening." The girl sat grief-stricken and silent in the cart, staring at the woods ahead where the road ran through taller saplings and where, here and there, mature trees towered. All around them now the increasing thunder rolled and echoed and shook the ground under them. Half a dozen gendarmes came up at a gallop. Their officer drew bridle, seized the donkey’s head and turned animal and cart southward. "Go back," he said briefly, recognizing Burley and returning his salute. "You may have to take your mules out of Sainte Lesse!" he added, as he wheeled his horse. "We are getting into trouble out here, _nom de Dieu_!" Maryette’s head hung as the donkey jogged along, trotting willingly because his nose was now pointed homeward. The girl drove with loose and careless rein and in silence; and beside her sat Burley, his troubled gaze always reverting to the despondent form beside him. "Too bad, little girl," he said. "But another time our wounded shall listen to your carillon." "Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France--the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack--a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one’s gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there--through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of God!--so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land----" "Maryette--I am so sorry for you----" "Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!" "Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette----" "No--my heart is broken----" "Vooz ates tray, tray belle----" The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now--too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart. A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers: