All that night they worked, a ghastly business. More than one man died
that night in the little house, while a blond young man in a German
uniform gave him a last mouthful of water or took down those pitifully
vague addresses which were all the dying Belgians had to give.
"I have not heard--last at Aarschot, but now--God knows where."
No more shells fell. At dawn, with all done that could be done, Sara
Lee fainted quietly in the hallway. Henri carried her in and placed
her on her bed. A corner of the room was indeed gone. The mantel was
shattered and the little stove. But on the floor lay Harvey's photograph
uninjured. Henri lifted it and looked at it. Then he placed it on the
table, and very reverently he kissed the palm of Sara Lee's quiet hand.
Daylight found the street pitiful indeed. Henri, whose costume Rene had
been casting wondering glances at all night, sent a request for men from
the trenches to clear away the bodies of the horses and bury them, and
somewhat later over a single grave in the fields there was a simple
ceremony of burial for the men who had fallen. Henri had changed again
by that time, but he sternly forbade Sara Lee to attend.
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