The chorus was repeated and the men joined in singing, roaring at the tops of their voices. Bubb straightened his back, expanded his chest and looked at his mate. Bowdy, with his cigarette in his mouth, was bellowing out the chorus, the cigarette moving up and down as if keeping time with the measure. Spudhole swept into a fresh song, a well-known favourite. The men joined in the singing:-- "There's a soldier out on picket Over there, There's a soldier out on picket Over there, There's a soldier out on picket, And 'e wants 'is bloomin' ticket, But the beggar's got to stick it Over there. 'E don't mind the dug-outs' stenches And the God-forsaken trenches When 'e's thinkin' o' the wenches Over there." The voices died away as a shell burst in the road very close at hand. "Nearer that time," said Bubb. "I wish we were in the trenches." They sighted the village to find the shells bursting all through the place and the buildings flying about the streets. The children were in hiding, not a civilian was to be seen save a pale, thin woman of forty who stood at the door of a ruined estaminet. This had no doubt been her home; probably she was still living in the cellar. The men stared at the woman, saw her bowed head, her ragged clothes, her queer, weedy form. In her eyes was a look such as the men had seldom seen. The poor creature reminded Bowdy of a dog which he once had seen prowling round a pond in which its young had been drowned. "Wot's she doin' standin' out in the street like that?" said Bubb. "She'll stop a packet if she's not careful." "Eyes right," came an order from an officer in front, and the men turned their eyes towards the woman at the door. "Salutin' 'er. I wonder wot for," said Bubb. "'Er four children were killed yesterday by a shell," said somebody in the ranks. The woman raised her head and looked stolidly at the soldiers. Her expression did not change; perhaps feeling was dead within her. At the other end of the village stood a ruined convent from which the nuns had not yet departed. They educated the village children. The little ones went to school daily, their books and respirators under their arms. The classroom was in the cellar of the Convent. As the men passed the Convent, they saw a nun, dressed in blue homespun, white frontlet and black veil, standing at the door throwing crumbs to the doves which fluttered about her feet. In one hand she held a rosary; no doubt she was saying her prayers. There was France personified, France great and fearless, a martyr unsubdued! The sight was a tonic to the men. Unable to resist the impulse, they gave vent to a rousing cheer. A look of perplexity overspread the woman's face, she gazed at the soldiers for a moment, then throwing the remaining crumbs to the birds she retreated hurriedly into the Convent.