She continued: “They were Bavarians, and when I said: ‘You see, we have nothing. Leave me my wounded, in the name of Mary most Holy,’ the commanding officer began to look at the point of his shoe as men do when they are embarrassed. I have seen surgeons do just that when they are in doubt about an operation,” she added. “Then he suddenly turned without a word and went out, followed by the other three, pistols and poignards in hand. They passed up the street with their detachment, ‘_mettant le feu et le sang au village; et moi, restée avec mes petits, à remercier le bon Dieu—et de leur donner à boire_.’” We gave our little offerings into her generous hands, and sniffed the scent of freshly baked bread that permeated the corridor. E. M. photographed her standing on her historic steps, and we went out into the hot, cobble-stoned street, to the completely ruined Lambertye château, standing in the midst of a park whose gardens were designed by Louis de Nesle. Two large and very beautiful porphyry basins near the house were untouched—not a nick or a scratch. On the great marble fireplace of what had been the big central hall, now uncovered to the day, we could still read the words: Charles de Montmorency Duc de . . . . mbourg, Maréchal de France. Afterward E. M. took some more photographs, and we sped homeward to pack our belongings and dash into Nancy to get the eight-o’clock train from there for Bar-le-Duc, to be ready for the high adventure of Verdun early the next morning. CHAPTER VII BAR-LE-DUC BAR-LE-DUC, _Sunday, June 17th, 2 a.m._ Scribbling in an indescribable brown-upholstered room, where one lies on the outside of a dark and menacing bed covered by one’s own coat, a strong odor of stable coming in at the window and a horrid black cat wandering about. It’s no night to sleep. Two o’clock has just softly sounded from some old bell. I didn’t hear one o’clock, I am thankful to say. I was in a sort of trance of fatigue when we got here at eleven.