"_Mais, Madame--de grace! C'est peut-etre la vie ou la mort!_"
The minute I've said it it sounds to me melodramatic and absurd. _I_ am
melodramatic and absurd, with my running feet, and my small figure and
earnest, upturned face, standing under a Convent wall at midnight, and
talking about _la vie et la mort_. It is too improbable. _I_ am too
improbable. I feel that I am making a fuss out of all proportion to the
occasion. And I am sorry for frightening the poor lay sister all for
nothing.
Very soon, down the south-east road, the Germans will be marching upon
Ghent.
And I cannot realize it. The whole thing is too improbable.
But the lay sister has understood this time. She will go and wake the
porteress. She is not at all frightened.
I wait a little longer, and presently the porteress opens the door. When
she hears my message she goes away, and returns after a little while
with one of the nuns.
They are very quiet, very kind, and absolutely unafraid. They say that
Miss Ashley-Smith and her British wounded shall be ready before [?] two
o'clock.