"Oh, Madame, ask the Englishmen for their revolvers. They've got their rifles--that's five of us armed, and Monsieur's revolver makes six! It's almost man to man. Ah, please, Madame!" they implored. In the excitement of the moment I nearly lost my head and consented. I was worked to such a point that any solution would have seemed a relief. The Britishers saw me put my hand in my pocket. "No! No!" they pleaded. "You can't--if we're caught you won't be killed--but murdered, tortured! We're the only ones who have a right to fire!" "But they've been peppering my cart regardless of my sex!" "That's perhaps their way of waging war, but not ours. Now then, off you go--quickly." We disappeared behind a clump of trees and tore down the clear road as fast as our horses would carry us. George sneaked back on his wheel to see if our aggressors were following, and came back radiant to announce that after coming halfway up the bill, they had turned about and were cantering to take possession of Jouy--as I had predicted. "Where's our nearest barracks?" enquired one of the Scotsmen. (I now saw that I had to do with the Scots a little.) We slowed down a little. "Where is our nearest barracks?" enquired one of the Scotsmen. "How on earth do you expect me to know? Up until I met you I hardly realized there were any British troops on the continent!" "Where are you bound for?" "Melun. There's a big French garrison there in time of peace. You'll always be sure of getting orders there--unless we meet someone on the road." They thought that was the best idea, and fell back, cantering behind my caravan with which I had now caught up. On we trotted-up hill and down dale for several hours, my poor wounded boy still writhing on his bed of agony. Towards four o'clock we had reached a long smooth stretch where we could see right and left for several miles over the plains. Presently, on a crossroad that ran perpendicular to ours, I spied a motor wagon. It was soon followed by another and then another, and pressing forward we reached the crossing in time to see Harrods' Stores, Whitley's, Swan & Edgar, and an interminable number of English Army supply motors coming straight towards us. Knowing that it would be impossible to pass before the whole long line had gone by, I crossed over and now saw that the Scots Grays would soon find friends. I called Leon and pulling out a card, told him to pedal back and dig out a bottle of champagne I had hidden in our hay cart, and to present it to our soldier friends as a bracer and a souvenir. And then we pushed ahead. Two minutes later, to my utter surprise, a heavy motor horn tooted on the road behind me and looking back, I saw a private car emerge from behind one of the English motors, and whirl down in our direction. It was a four-seater affair with but two occupants, a chauffeur and a woman wearing a streaming white veil.