ermans were surprised
and Alan was away in the dark at top speed. The horse was a flyer and
no mistake. His heart beat high with hope as he felt it bound under
him. Shots were fired but fell short. Then he heard a noise behind
him but it was too dark to see anything.

He rode straight ahead, judging this would take him out of the Germans'
country. For several hours he went on at a great pace. Occasionally
his horse stumbled, but that gave him no anxiety, for he was used to
all kinds of situations when riding.

When light began to steal over the landscape he took in the lay of the
land. He was in the middle of a wide flat country; the ground was wet
and marshy. He had no idea where he was but he seemed safe from
pursuit. Not a soul was to be seen. He slowed the horse down to a
walk, it was time the animal had a rest.

Where was he?

He went slowly on; then he saw in the distance what looked like a white
farm-house. It was a dwelling of some kind and he made for it. As he
came within hail an old man stepped out, a Belgian peasant, so Alan
judged him by his appearance. He spoke to him in French. The old man
regarded him curiously. As Alan looked at him he thought:

"He's a better man than I imagined. Perhaps he's disguised."

In answer to Alan's question he said in excellent French:

"Who are you? You don't look like a civilian."

Alan determined to be straight with him; it would probably be best.

"I am a soldier. I wish to find the English lines."

"Ah!" exclaimed the man. "Get down, come inside. Where are you from?"

"Bruges."

The man held up his hands, tears came into his eyes. He lamented the
fall of the city, its occupation by the Germans. He had a daughter in
Bruges when the enemy entered the city. He wrung his hands; his grief
was painful. He said no more, but Alan guessed and grasped his hands
in sympathy--and hate.

Alan put the horse in the tumble-down stable, the roof was half off,
the rafters hanging down, the walls crumbling--an old place. It had
been in the family of Jean Baptistine for many years. He was a lone
man, no wife, three sons fighting, and his daughter--ah well, she was
where no harm could come to her. She had saved her honor and
sacrificed her life. He was glad of that, very glad, honor was more
than life.

He gave Alan food, coarse but clean, which he enjoyed, for he was
hungry.

Jean talked freely. He supposed he and his farmhouse were left alone