Vivie and her mother found the banks closed and likewise the railway
station. They now had but one thought: to get back as quickly as
possible to Villa Beau-sejour, and fortunately for their dry-mouthed
impatience their farmer friend was of the same mind. Along the
Tervueren road they met numbers of peasant refugees in carts and on
foot, driving cattle, geese or pigs towards the capital; urging on
the tugging dogs with small carts and barrows loaded with personal
effects, trade-goods, farm produce, or crying children. All of them
had a distraught, haggard appearance and were constantly looking
behind them. From the east, indeed, came the distant sounds of
explosions and intermittent rifle firing. Mrs. Warren was blanched
with fear, her cheeks a dull peach colour. She questioned the people
in French and Flemish, but they only answered vaguely in raucous
voices: "Les Allemands!" "De Duitscher."
One old woman, however, had flung herself down by the roadside,
while her patient dog lay between the shafts of the little cart till
she should be pleased to go on. She was more communicative and told
Mrs. Warren a tale too horrible to be believed, about husband, son,
son-in-law all killed, daughter violated and killed too, cottage in
flames, livestock driven off. Recovering from her exhaustion she
rose and shook herself. "I've no business to be here.
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