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At the other end of the street stood the
church on rising ground, and further on, as
far as the eye could see, the usual
poplar-lined French chaussée stretched away in one
straight line towards the distant Eastern hills.
The church looked undamaged, and so did
the adjoining Presbytery in its little grove of
elm-trees.
Outside the portal of the church stood the
old curé, and at his side another old man who
proved to be the mayor and the village
doctor in one person, eyeing with uncomfortable
curiosity the approaching stranger. The
sight of the red ribbon on his dilapidated
tunic removed their uneasiness at once, and
when the stranger told them that he was a
doctor and belonged to the British Red Cross
they received him with open arms.
“It is God Himself who has sent you here,
Dr. Martin,” said the Curé in his kind voice.
The doctor did not look quite so sure of
that, but was evidently pleased to be spared
any explanation as to what had landed him
there, with all his kit lost and nothing but a
morphia syringe in his pocket and a packet
of cigarettes and a little tea in his haversack.
“We are badly in need of help, mon cher
confrère,” said the old village doctor as they
went in.
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