Maria made haste to drop what they were carrying and start off again at
a much slower pace for the gate. The sun was low in the west. It was
setting in a bank of golden clouds over the little river that ran
parallel with the west wall of the town. Lucia stopped to look at it.

"Rain to-morrow, I suppose, by the look of those clouds," she said, a
real pucker of concern between her eyes.

"And no wonder," Maria agreed, "with all this banging of guns one would
think it would rain all the time out of pity for so much suffering."

"Now, Maria, don't begin to cry," Lucia protested not unkindly. "It
will do you no good, and it will only make things look worse than they
really are."

"How can they?" Maria demanded, with more show of resentment than was
usual with her quiet acceptance of things. "Only this morning I sold
milk to such a sweet boy from the south. He had great sad, brown eyes
like yours, and he was very young and unhappy. His father and brother
were both killed, and now he is going."

"But perhaps he won't be killed," Lucia said practically. "Anyway, he
will get a chance to do a little killing first, and surely that is
enough to satisfy any one, or ought to be."

"Oh, Lucia you are cruel sometimes," Maria protested. "Who wants to
kill? Surely not these happy boys, and they don't want to be killed
either. It is all too terrible to think about, and you are an
unnatural girl to talk as you do. Why, I don't believe you have cried
once since the war began, even when the poor wounded were brought here,