rage fire for the second time vibrated through the little towns; and the remnants of old people and children left in them, knowing well what the roar and the trembling had preceded before, began again to roll up little bundles of food and clothing.
Constance had read many accounts of evacuations, had listened to many, had gazed long at countless sketches, drawn in charcoal by great artists, of terror-stricken refugees, but she hadn't conceived what it was really like. She hadn't supposed there would be troops upon troops of retreating soldiers mixed in among the refugees—silent bands, ambulances evacuating hospitals, rattling wagons full of army equipment, evidence upon evidence of defeat, surrender. She hadn't been able, either, to imagine the terrific noise—the continuous accompaniment to the confusion. Oh—such confusion! It was chaos. By evening of the first day of the retreat the village streets were filled with a horribly mixed-up mass of animate and inanimate objects—human beings, animals, household furniture, stray cows blocking traffic, stray hens, stray children. And the most frightening feature of it was, it seemed to Constance, that the mass grew steadily bigger and bigger, as the hours proceeded. She was thankful that there was so much work to do and
