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Pol was very young when the war began almost as young as a curé can be. He did not think, at first, to become a soldier, for he hated war. But, indeed, in those early days he had no time to think at all. He only worked worked, to help care for the wounded who were pouring into Rheims, toward the last of August, 1914.
. . . You never heard of this place, I daresay. After staying a few days at Paris we started for Rennes, reached Caen and halted a little thence made for Auray, where we made excursions to Carnac, Lokmariaker, and Ste.-Anne d'Auray; all very interesting of their kind; then saw Brest, Morlaix, St.-Pol de Leon, and the sea-port Roscoff, our intended bathing place it was full of folk, however, and otherwise impracticable, so we had nothing for it, but to "rebrousser chemin" and get to the south-west again.
In haste the wounded were sent to Épernay to save them from being made prisoners. But some could not go: Louis de St. Pol and his friend Captain Jean de Visgnes. De Visgnes might have been hidden in the St. Pol house but he would not leave the boy, who could not be moved so far. The Curé vowed to hide both, and he did hide them in a chapel of the Cathedral itself.
I was so dead asleep at first, being fatigued with rowing, or paddling, as it is called, the first part of the day, and walking the latter part, that I did not awake thoroughly; and dozing between sleeping and waking, thought I dreamed that somebody spoke to me: but as the voice continued to repeat Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe; at last I began to awake more perfectly, and was at first dreadfully frighted, and started up in the utmost consternation: but no sooner were my eyes open, but I saw my Pol sitting on the top of the hedge, and immediately knew that this was he that spoke to me; for just in such bemoaning language I had used to talk to him, and teach him; and he had learnt it so perfectly, that he would sit upon my finger, and lay his bill close to my face, and cry, "Poor Robin Crusoe, where are you?
Along all the reaches of the Pol, right down to the sea, the leaves of the woods hung with a riotous magnificence that is glorious in its recklessness.
In six hours you will be aboard ship again; and in another twenty, perhaps, you will see your mother and your father too, if he escaped clear away. In little more than a day you will be back in Brittany. But first you must lie quite still, and I will show you something." "To be sure I will, madame." "You must not call me that. I am the Demoiselle Heloise Keranguin. You know St. Pol de Leon, Yann?"
Certain rich citizens bought their lives with large sums, others were sold as slaves, or were hanged or beheaded, or were thrown into the Meuse. In the monasteries, life was conceded to the inmates but that was all. All their property was confiscated. The Count of St. Pol, now Constable of France, tried to intercede for the citizens with Philip who remained at Bouvignes, but to no result.
No one visited them in the tower except the laughing Matheline, the heiress of the tenant of Coat-Dor and god-daughter of Josserande; and Pol Bihan, son of the successor of Martin Ker as armed keeper of the great door. Both Pol and Matheline often conversed together, and upon what subject do you think? Always of Sylvestre Ker. Was it because they loved him? No.
"Mon mieux" was the motto St. Pol carved over the gateway; "Our worst" is the taunt the Germans have flung. But the combination of that best and worst is glorious to the eye. From Ham we spun on to Jussy, along the new white road which is so amazing when one thinks that every yard of it had to be created out of chaos a few months ago.
This, it would seem, is ample; but we now find the eccentric, K, no longer in the right position for backing; when the engine is reversed it ought to be at, P, the angle, POL, being equal to the angle, KOL. By leaving it free, therefore, to move upon the shaft, by the means above described, through the angle, KOP, the desired object is accomplished.
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