was trouble. She was four days getting to that
part of it. He had got behind the lines by that time, and he knew that
in some way suspicion had been roused. He was weak by that time, and
could not go far. He had lain hidden, for a day and part of a night,
without water, in a destroyed barn, and then had escaped.

He got into the Belgian costume as before, but he could not wear a sling
for his wounded arm. He got the peasant to thrust his helpless right
hand into his pocket, and for two days he made a close inspection of
what was going on. But fever had developed, and on the third night,
half delirious, when he was spoken to by an officer he had replied, of
all tongues, in English.

The officer shot him instantly in the chest. He fell and lay still and
the officer bent over him. In that moment Henri stabbed him with a
knife in his left hand. Men were coming from every direction, but he
got away--he did not clearly remember how. And at dawn he fell into
the Belgian farmhouse, apparently dying.

Jean's story, on the other hand, was given early and with no hesitation.
He had crossed the border at Holland in civilian clothes, by the simple
expedient of bribing a sentry. He had got, with little difficulty, to
the farmhouse, and found Henri, now recovering but very weak; he was
lying hidden in a garret, and he was suffering from hunger and lack of
medical attention. In a wagon full of market stuff, Henri hidden in the
bed of it, they had got to the border again. And there Jean had, it
seemed, stabbed the sentry he had bribed before and driven on to neutral
soil.

Not an unusual story, that of Henri and Jean. The journey across
Belgium in the springless farm wagon was the worst. They had had to
take roundabout lanes, avoiding the main highways. Fortunately, always
at night there were friendly houses, kind hands to lift Henri into warm
fire-lighted interiors. Many messages they had brought back, some of
cheer, but too often of tragedy, from the small farmsteads of Belgium.

Then finally had been Holland, and the chartering of a boat--and at
last--"Here we are, and here we are, and here we are again," sang Henri,
chopping at his cotton and making a great show of cheerfulness before
Sara Lee.

But with Jean sometimes he showed the black depression beneath. He
would never be a man again. He was done for. He gained strength so
slowly that he believed he was not gaining at all. He was not happy,
and the unhappy mend slowly.