It appears that those of the 1st Zouaves still in hospital had had a rise in temperature at the thought that their representation might not equal that of the Moroccan Division of Friday. The _Compère_ was made to look as much as possible like Colonel Rolland—adored by his men. “_On R’met Ca!_” has been given in the trenches all over the front, and was just as funny and amusing as the other, but there was a strange intermezzo about three o’clock, when the dreadful sun, shining through the glass panes of the sides (on the roof great squares of canvas had been spread), began to get fainter. It was like being in the hot-room of a Turkish bath. Suddenly a darkness fell, accompanied by a deafening and terrifying noise of a heavy rattling on the roof and a beating in at the sides; the voices and music were completely drowned and the performance had to be suspended. Even the officers were beginning to look about—when the lights suddenly went out and we found ourselves in Stygian blackness at 4.30 of a summer afternoon, the terrific noise continuing, with the under-note of the stirring of the thousands assembled. A nameless fear, or something akin to it, went through the vast assemblage. Finally we realized that it was heaven, not the enemy, bombarding us, as hailstones, even by the time they had gone through many hot hands, as big as turkey eggs, were passed about. There was the sound of breaking glass, water began to rush in, the heavy canvas, spread on the roof as protection against the sun, and also to prevent the light from being seen from the air, alone prevented the roof from breaking in. Finally the lights reappeared and the performance proceeded to the diminishing sound of heavy rain—but it was a strange experience. Even those generals of Olympic calm had begun to “think thoughts” at one moment. It would have been a big “bag,” had anything been doing, and we all knew it. Mrs. S. and Miss E. have been persuaded to stay at the house by the Marne, rather than at La Haute Mère Dieu, and we have arranged to double up. I am to motor back to Paris with them to-morrow. CHAPTER V A PROVIDENTIAL FORD PARIS, _July 31st_. Yesterday, at 8.30 in the damp morning, Lieutenant Robin appeared with my military pass to return by auto instead of by train, and I said a special farewell to the gardener, carrying our bags out to the motor in a passionate tenderness of courtesy. Miss Nott and Miss Mitchell bade us Godspeed, and we passed over the Marne and out of town. At the _consigne_ examination of our papers, our charming chauffeuse excited much attention. An officer standing there with pasteboard box and leather bag asked if we would give him a lift. The road was unusually empty and he had been awaiting an act of Providence for two hours. We were it.