The road to Furnes was fairly clear, but as they entered that town they
found the streets cluttered with troops, military automobiles, supply
wagons, artillery, ammunition trucks and bicycles. The boy clanged his
bell continuously and as if by magic the way opened before the Red Cross
and cheers followed them on their way.

The eyes of the little Belgian were sparkling like jewels; his hands on
the steering wheel were steady as a rock; he drove with skill and
judgment. Just now the road demanded skill, for a stream of refugees was
coming toward them from Nieuport and a stream of military motors,
bicycles and wagons, with now and then a horseman, flowed toward the
front. A mile or two beyond Furnes they came upon a wounded soldier, one
leg bandaged and stained with blood while he hobbled along leaning upon
the shoulder of a comrade whose left arm hung helpless.

Maurie drew up sharply and Beth sprang out and approached the soldiers.

"Get inside," she said in French.

"No," replied one, smiling; "we are doing nicely, thank you. Hurry
forward, for they need you there."

"Who dressed your wounds?" she inquired.

"The Red Cross. There are many there, hard at work; but more are needed.
Hurry forward, for some of our boys did not get off as lightly as we."

She jumped into the ambulance and away it dashed, but progress became
slower presently. The road was broad and high; great hillocks of