warned me that my dream might soon be a terrible reality.

The Marne crossed, a weight was lifted from my shoulders, and settling
back against the pile of blankets in my rig, I let the horse follow his
own sweet will and we started to zig-zag up a steep incline. At the end
of five minutes' time I was so benumbed by the cold that sleep was
impossible, so I left my seat and joined the others who, all save
Yvonne, had been obliged to descend to relieve their horse. What a
climb that was--seven long kilometers from right to left, winding around
that hill, as about a mountain, ever and again finding ourselves on a
narrow ledge overlooking the valley. The fog had spread until literally
choked up between the bills and I could hardly persuade myself that it
was not the sea that rolled below me. Even the signal lamps on the
distant railway line rose out of the labyrinth like a lighthouse in
mid-ocean, making the illusion complete.

Dawn was breaking as we reached the summit and pausing for a moment's
breath, we could see people with bundles hurrying from cottages and farm
yards, while the fields seemed dotted with horses and carts that sprang
out of the semi-darkness like specters, following one another to the
highway. In less than no time the long caravan had re-formed and was
again under way.

We brought up the rear, preceded by five hundred snow-white oxen. There
was no way of' advancing faster than the _cortege_. It was stay in line
or lose your place, and as the sun rose over the plains, I was so
impressed by the magnificence of our procession that I forgot the real
cause of our flight and never for an instant realized that I now formed
an intimate part of that column which but a few hours since inspired me
with such genuine pity.