Singularly white and peaceful were those small steadings of Belgium
in the night hours--until cruel dawn showed them for what they
were--skeletons of dead homes, clothed only at night with wraithlike
roofs and chimneys; ghosts of houses, appearing between midnight and
cock crow.
Jean had not Henri's eyes nor his recklessness nor his speed, for that
matter. Now and then he saw the small appearing and disappearing lights
on some small rise. He would reach the spot, with such shelter as
possible, to find only a sugar-beet field, neglected and unplowed.
Then, one night, tragedy came to the little house of mercy.