e woods behind her. After an interval of terrible stillness there came a
distant crashing of footsteps among dead leaves and underbrush.

Horror of the Hun still possessed her; the victim of Prussian ferocity
still lay across her knees. She dared not take the chance that friendly
ears might hear her call for aid--dared not raise her voice in appeal lest
she awaken something monstrous, unclean, inconceivable--the unseen thing
which she could hear at intervals prowling there among dead leaves in the
demi-light of the woods.

Suddenly her heart leaped with fright; a man stepped cautiously out of the
woods into the road; another, dressed in leather, with dry blood caked on
his face, followed.

The first comer, a French gendarme, had already caught sight of the donkey
and market cart; had turned around instinctively to look for their owner.
Now he discovered her seated there among the ferns under the oak tree.

"In the name of God," he growled, "what's that child doing there!"

The airman in leather followed him across the road to the oak; the girl
looked up at them out of dark, tear-marred eyes that seemed dazed.

"Well, little one!" rumbled the big, red-faced gendarme. "What's your
name?--you who sit here all alone at the wood's edge with a dead man
across your knees?"

She made an effort to find her voice--to control it.

"I am Maryette Courtray, bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse," she answered,
trembling.

"And--this young man?"

"They shot him--the Prussians, monsieur."

"My poor child! Was he your lover, then?"

Her tear-filled eyes widened:

"Oh, no," she said naively; "it is sadder than that. He was my friend."

The big gendarme scratched his chin; then, with an odd glance at the young
airman who stood beside him:

"To lose a friend is indeed sadder than to lose a lover. What was your
friend's name, little one?"

She pressed her hand to her forehead in an effort to search among her
partly paralyzed thoughts:

"Djack.... That is his name.... He was the first real friend I ever had."

The airman said:

"He is one of my countrymen--an American muleteer, Jack Burley--in charge
at Sainte Lesse."

At the sound of the young man's name pronounced in English the girl began
to cry. The big gendarme bent over and patted her cheek.

"_Allons_," he growled; "courage! little mistress of the bells! Let us
place your friend in your pretty market cart and leave this accursed
place, in God's name!"

He straight