.

.
Focussing his glasses on the village, he saw the red spots of kepis waving like poppies over the green of the meadows.

They were the retreating men, now convinced of the uselessness of their resistance.
Perhaps they had found a ford or forgotten boat by which they might cross the Maine, and so were continuing their retreat toward the river.
At any minute now the Germans were going to enter Villeblanche.
Half an hour of profound silence passed by.

The village lay silhouetted against a background of hills--a mass of roofs beneath the church tower finished with its cross and iron weather cock.

Everything seemed as tranquil as in the best days of peace.