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Not until then did it occur to any one of us that we had not spoken to
the men in charge of the wagon, or they to us. There was one detached
house, not badly battered, alongside the road at the lower edge of the
field where the burial took place. It had a shield on its front wall
bearing the Belgian arms and words to denote that it was a customs
house.
A glance at our map showed us that at this point the French boundary
came up in a V-shaped point almost to the road. Had the gravediggers
picked a spot fifty yards farther on for digging their trench, those two
dead Frenchmen would have rested in the soil of their own country.
The sun was almost down by now, and its slanting rays slid lengthwise
through the elm-tree aisles along our route. Just as it disappeared we
met a string of refugees--men, women and children--all afoot, all
bearing pitiably small bundles. They limped along silently in a
straggling procession. None of them was weeping; none of them
apparently had been weeping.


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