Woffington and the Doctor took turns in wheeling him through the mud. Hilda walked at their side. The wheel bit deeply into the road under the weight. They had to spell each other, frequently. After a few hundred yards, they met a small detachment of cavalry, advancing toward the house. The horses seemed to feel the tension, and shared in the silence of their drivers, stepping noiselessly through the murk. Woffington was forced to turn the barrow into the ditch. It required the strength of the two men, one at each handle, to shove it out on the road again. The stretchers had reached the ambulance ahead of the wheelbarrow. They loaded the car hastily--there was no time to swing stretchers. They put the three wounded in on the long wooden seat. The boy with the torn biceps fainted on Hilda's shoulder. She rode in with him. At Hoogar dressing-station, she asked the military doctor for water for the boy. He had come to, and kept whispering--"Water, water." "I have no water for you," said the Doctor. A soldier followed her back to the car and gave the lad to drink from his bottle. There was only a swallow in it. When they reached the Convent, the officer in charge came running out. "I'll take this load, but that's all," he said. "Can't take any more, full up. Next trip, go on into the town, to Military Hospital Number Three." They started back toward the wood. "I've only got petrol enough for one trip, and then home again," said Woffington. "All the way, then," said the Doctor, "out to the farthest trenches. We'll make a clean sweep." They shot past Hoogar, and out through the wood, and on to the trenches of the Cheshires. Just back of the mounded earth, the reserves were sleeping in the mud of the road, and on the wet bank of the ditch. The night was dark and silent. A few rods to the right, a shelled barn was blazing. "Have you any wounded?" asked Dr. McDonnell. "So many we haven't gathered them in," answered the officer. "What is the use? No one to carry them away." "I'll carry as many as I can," said the Doctor. "I'll send for them," replied the captain. He spread his men out in the search. Three wounded were placed in the car, all of them stretcher cases. "Room for one more stretcher case," said Dr. McDonnell; "the car only holds four." "Bring the woman," ordered the officer. His men came carrying an aged peasant woman, grey-haired, heavy, her black dress soggy with dew and blood. "Here's a poor old woman," explained the captain; "seems to be a Belgian peasant. She was working out in the fields here, while the firing was going on. She was shot in the leg and fell down in the field. She's been lying on her face there all day. Can't you take her out of the way?" "Surely," said Hilda. The old woman was heavier than a soldier, heavier and more helpless. "The car is full," said Hilda; "you have more wounded?" The officer smiled. "Of course," he answered; "here come a few of them, now."