,
and Blease found a ledge below the road, and though it was very
squelchy, they spread a mackintosh sheet and rolled up on it in their
rugs.

No sooner were they really settled and sleeping than a voice said,
"You'll have to get up: an officer says the carriages must move on--the
King is coming." It was West. We sat up. Between us and the dim lights
of the carts the black shadows of the crowds passed without end.

"I'll go and talk to them," said Jo; and unrolled herself, struggled and
fumbled with her boots and floundered into the blackness, where a
mounted officer was delivering orders. Shouts could be heard, lights
waved, horses whinnied, splashing their feet in the puddles as they were
being violently pulled here and there, and our poor little carts were
moving ahead into obscurity. Jo told him they were a Red Cross
party--that the carts were small, and couldn't they stay where they
were? The officer inspected the poor little carts, made his best bow,
and said, "Yes, they can stay."

But the corporal did not listen to Jo's orders. He belonged to a country
which rates women and cattle together, and the carts moved relentlessly
on. With difficulty Jo found the ledge again on which Jan was sitting
with the rugs, talking to the scenery in a manner which was not pretty.

Blease came up, and the three of us shouldered the things and stumbled
off to find the vanished carriages, which were half a mile down the
road. Jan flung his baggage on to somebody and soundly boxed the
corporal's ears, calling him a "gloop." Instantly the corporal felt that
"here was a man he could really understand," and from that moment became
a devoted adherent, studying our slightest whim, and at intervals humbly
laying walnuts before us.

A man came up to Jan.

"I believe that man is drunk," said he; "I said that your carts might
stand."

"Who are you?" said Jan.

"I was once the conductor of the Crown Prince's orchestra," he said;
"now I am traffic superintendent. It is difficult. I had a horse, a
jolly little brown horse, but he gave out and I had to leave him behind
on the road." There were tears in the man's voice. "He was a good
horse, but it was too hard for him. Now I have to walk."

"I shot your horse," said Jan. "They were driving over its body."

"He was a nice horse," said the man again, "a nice horse, and now I have
to walk. Well, good-bye, you can rest here."

He splashed away in the mud.

Our new sleeping place was w