Forest fragrance sprayed into our faces like perfume from a vaporizer.
We seemed to pass through endless halls supported by white marble
pillars, which were really spaces between trees, magically transformed
by our blazing headlight. Always in front of us hovered an archway of
frosted silver, moving as we moved, like a pale, elusive rainbow; and
when we put on extra speed for a long, straight stretch, poplars
carelessly spared by the Boches spouted up on either side of us like
geysers. Then, suddenly, across a stretch of blackness palely shone
Compiegne, as Venice shines across the dark lagoon.
CHAPTER XXV
Little did I think, Padre, to write you from Soissons! When last I spoke
to you about it, we were gazing through field-glasses at the single
tower of the cathedral, pointing out of purple shadows toward the
evening star of hope. Then we lost ourselves in the Ravin de Bitry, and
arrived thankfully at Compiegne two hours later than we had planned. We
expected to have part of a day at Soissons, but--I told you of the
dreadful flies in that ravine of death, and how Mother Beckett was stung
on the throat. The next day she had a headache, but took aspirin, and
pronounced herself well enough for the trip to Soissons. Father Beckett
let her go, because he's in the habit of letting her do whatever she
wants to do, fancying (and she fancies it, too) that he is master. You
see, we thought it was only a fatigue-headache.
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