We made sure the doctors had no cases to dispose of, and returned to the brickyard, where "Flossie" waited patiently. The flares and a pocket flashlight were all the light we had, and we got off across bumpy roads--in and out of shell holes. Once we nearly had a nasty smash, but that was near Furnes. A convoy of great heavy wagons had been left on the wrong side of the road, and as lights were not permitted and the night very dark Chris was driving slowly and warily--peering into the shadows. She brought "Flossie" to a violent halt, our bonnet touching the first of these unwieldy monsters! II--STORY OF THE LITTLE CORPORAL AND THE GENERAL Three days later General J---- sent his motor cyclist to bring us out to lunch. The courtesy was indeed great, as the lad had 50 miles to come, if not more. Unluckily he had a smash, and rode back on the step of our car. He was a type of the modern Belgian youth. Well-bred, clever, with frank, humourous eyes, and the adorable smile of a "Parisian gamin," he kept us amused all the way. His comments were racy, and always gallant. "I am no longer a simple soldier; I am corporal. The General has done that--because of you others, there is no doubt." And his merry eyes challenged us to disbelieve that a simple soldier would not be good enough as escort. "Yes, we are all gay," he would say; "yes, but it is sad too. I am _fiancé_, and I have no letter from her--no, not from the day the war broke out. I have written, yes, but she does not answer. It is gay the war, _n'est-ce pas_, madame?" And a little later, with his childish pout: "I have had a letter from my mother. She is in Brussels; she does not find the war gay. She cannot see me, and she loves me." His shrill whistle, prolonged on a certain note, took us past sentries and barricades. "You see, the Belges are musical. There, hear me whistle like a bird, and say 'Passez! passez! les oiseaux!'" The wind was keen and the roads greasy, but Chris sat steady as a rock, her great grey eyes fixed on the future, her mobile face calm and tranquil. Jean was piqued. "Look, mam'selle, Chris is absorbed. She drives, yes; but she will not listen to our chatter. She has no time to smile then. Oh, these ladies who drive cars!" Chris (who had danced and skated in peaceful days with the little cyclist) turned her ready smile in his direction, and he forgave.