She supposed that he was going to back towards the yard, and she wondered
whether she could lift up the Belgian and carry him out. She stooped over
him, put her hands under his armpits, raising him and wondering. Better
not. He had a bad wound. Better wait for the stretcher.

She turned, suddenly, arrested. The noise she heard was not the grating
noise of a car backing, it was the scream of a car getting away; it
dropped to a heavy whirr and diminished.

She looked out. Up the road she saw John's car rushing furiously
towards Ghent.

The Belgian had heard it. His eyes moved. Black hare's eyes, terrified.
It was not possible, he said, that they had been left behind?

No, it was not possible. John had forgotten them; but he would
remember; he would come back. In five minutes. Seven minutes. She had
waited fifteen.

The Belgian was muttering something. He complained of being left there.
He said he was not anxious about himself, but about Mademoiselle.
Mademoiselle ought not to have been left. She was sitting on the ground
now, beside him.

"It'll be all right," she said. "He'll come back." When he remembered he
would come back.

She had waited half an hour.