“I’m precious glad,” said Brand, “that no sister of mine was behind German lines. God knows how much they had to endure. Imagine their risks! It was a lucky escape for that girl Hélène. Supposing she had failed to barricade her door?” When we came into the Grande Place we saw that something was happening. It was almost dark after a shadowy twilight, but we could see a crowd of people surging round some central point of interest. Many of them were laughing, loudly. There was some joke in progress. The women’s tongues sounded most loud, and shrill. “They’re getting back to gaiety,” said Brand. “What’s the jest, I wonder?” A gust of laughter came across the square. Above it was another sound, not so pleasant. It was a woman’s shrieks--shriek after shriek, most blood-curdling, and then becoming faint. “What the devil----!” said Brand. We were on the edge of the crowd, and I spoke to a man there. “What’s happening?” He laughed, in a grim way. “It’s the _coiffure_ of a lady. They are cutting her hair.” I was mystified. “Cutting her hair?” A woman spoke to me, by way of explanation, laughing like the man. “Shaving her head, monsieur. She was one of those who were too complaisant with German officers. You understand? There were many of them. They ought to have their heads cut off, as well as their hair.” Another man spoke, gruffly. “There would be a good many headless corpses, if that were so. To their shame be it said. It was abominable. No pride. No decency.” “But the worst will escape,” said another. “In private houses. The well-dressed demoiselles!” _“Tuez-les!_” cried a woman. “_Tuez-les!_” It was a cry for killing, such, as women had screamed when pretty aristocrats were caught by the mobs of the French Revolution. “My God!” said Brand. He shouldered his way through the crowd, and I followed him. The people made a gap for us, seeing our uniforms, and desired us to enjoy the joke. What I saw when I came closer was a group of young men holding a limp figure. One of them was brandishing a large pair of scissors, as large as shears. Another held up a tangled mass of red hair. “_Regardez!_” he shouted to the crowd, and they cheered and laughed. I had seen the hair before, as I knew when I saw a girl’s face, dead-white, lifeless, as it seemed, and limp against a man’s shoulder. “It is Marthe!” I said to Brand. “Pierre Nesle’s sister.” A curious sense of faintness overcame me, and I felt sick. Brand did not answer me, but I saw his face pale under its tan. He pushed forward through the crowd and I lost sight of him for a few moments. After that I saw him carrying the girl; above the heads of the people I saw her head flopping from side to side horribly, a head with close-cropped hair. They had torn her clothes off her shoulders, which were bleeding. “Help me,” said Brand.