ion would allow him to. With tears in her eyes, the old servant
hurried off to her kitchen to prepare the meal.

"Tie the schoolmaster down to that chair," ordered the German officer,
"and place him opposite me, so that he may see how much his guest enjoys
his lunch."

Thus they sat, the host and the guest, face to face across the little
deal table near the window. The sun shone down on the clean cloth and
the blood-coloured wine, and on the schoolmaster's grey hair. In the
shade cast by the apple tree outside, sat the German, now drinking, now
glancing mockingly at his unwilling host. The meal was interrupted by an
orderly, who came in with a note.

Von Scheldmann read it, and swore. "In five minutes we parade," he said,
"to follow on after your cowardly dogs of _poilus_. Here's a health to
the new rulers of France! Here's to the German Empire!" and he leant
across the table towards the schoolmaster. "Drink, you dog," he said,
"drink to my toast," and he held his glass close to the other's lips.

Gaston Baudel hesitated for a moment. Then he suddenly jerked his head
forward, and, with his chin, knocked the glass out of the German's hand.
As the wine splashed over the floor, von Scheldmann leaped to his feet.

"Swine!" he shouted. "It is lucky for you that your wine was good and
has left me in a kind mood, otherwise you would certainly die for that
insult. As it is, you shall but lose your ears, and I shall benefit the
world by cutting them off. If you move an inch I shall have to run my
sword through your heart."

He lifted his sword, and brought it down twice. Then he called to his
servant and hastened out into the sunlit street, leaving Gaston Baudel
tied to his chair, with the warm blood running down each side of his
face.

II

Six days later, shortly before the middle of September, an unwonted
noise in the street brought the old schoolmaster from his breakfast. He
walked down the little flagged path of the garden to the gate, and
looked up and down the road. By the green, in the square, a group of
villagers were talking and gesticulating, and from the direction of
Ecury came the deep rumble of traffic and the sound of heavy firing.

The schoolmaster called to one of the peasants. "He, Jeanne," he cried.
"What is the news?"

"The Boches are coming back, M. Baudel," said Jeanne Legrand. "They are
fleeing from our troops, and will be passing through here, many of them.
Pray God they may be in too much of