s were played--they could
see nothing of the spectacle but distant, blood-red gleams.

Philippe took refuge in a fierce silence that distressed his wife.
Morestal was nervous, excited and in an execrable temper. He went out
for no reason, came in again at once, could not keep still:

"Ah," he cried, in a moment of despondency in which his thoughts stood
plainly revealed, "why did we come home by the frontier? Why did I help
that deserter? For there's no denying it: if I hadn't helped him,
nothing would have happened."

On Friday evening, it became known that the chancellor, who already had
the German reports in his hands, now possessed the French papers, which
had been communicated by our ambassador. The affair, hitherto purely
administrative, was becoming diplomatic. And the government was
demanding the release of the special commissary of Saint-Elophe, who had
been arrested on French territory.

"If they consent, all will be well," said Morestal. "There is no
humiliation for Germany in disowning the action of a pack of minor
officials. But, if they refuse, if they believe the policemen's lies,
what will happen then? France cannot give way."

On Saturday morning, the _Boersweilener Zeitung_ printed the following
short paragraph in a special edition:

"After making a careful examination of the French papers, the
chancellor has returned them to the French ambassador. The case of
Commissary Jorance, accused of the crime of high treason and
arrested on German territory, will be tried in the German courts."

It was a refusal.

That morning, Morestal took his son to the Col du Diable and, bent in
two, following the road to the Butte-aux-Loups step by step, examining
each winding turn, noting a big root here and a long branch there, he
reconstituted the plan of the attack. And he showed Philippe the trees
against which he had brushed in his flight and the trees at the foot of
which he and his friend had stood and defended themselves:

"It was there, Philippe, and nowhere else.... Do you see that little
open space? That's where it was.... I have often come and smoked my pipe
here, because of this little mound to sit upon.... That's the place!"

He sat down on the same mound and said no more, staring before him,
while Philippe looked at him. Several times, he repeated, between his
teeth:

"Yes, this is certainly the place.... How could I be mistaken?"

And, suddenly, he pressed his two fist