They attacked the rick and
soon nothing was left. As they staggered back, each hidden beneath an
enormous load of hay--looking themselves like walking ricks--a Turk in
black and white clothes ran down from above furiously brandishing a
three-pronged fork.
"What are you doing?" he yelled.
The corporal stood stiffly and said--
"It is war. We are the State. It is of no value for you to preach."
The owner went dolefully down the hill, and stood looking at where his
stack had been.
"We have again prevented those Germans from stealing good hay," said the
corporal with satisfaction. Each cart looked not unlike a hay wain
returning from the fields, and we scrambled up on to the top feeling
like children in the autumn. After we had gone a mile we began to wonder
why we had given the owner no compensation: evidently the corporal's
influence was turning us into scoundrels.
At last the broken bridge. Only a shallow stream across which our carts
splashed joyfully. On the other side was a small church with a beautiful
blue tower.
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