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carrried papers of importance, and was on a mission that might mean a great deal to him and to the corps operating in the region between Langres and Vesoul.

Had he been certain of but one rider, his desire for action might have remained uppermost, and he would have stood his ground. But the German riders seldom traveled save in a body, and he decided upon the safe course. In one leap he crossed the ditch, scrambled up the embankment and found shelter beneath a snow-covered bush.

In his haste he sprawled headlong. He wiped the frozen particles from the dawning beard on his cheeks, from his brows. The protruding bony structure of the face, a face thin to the point of emaciation, revealed that of late his life had not been one of ease. The light blue eyes, which seemed to catch something of the white of the snowy fields and something of the somberness of the sky, were resolute, but softened by some inner emotion.

He was finding it bitter to be in his homeland, in his country's uniform, and forced to hide. The humiliation of France's defeat had never struck him as forcibly as now. Three months before, when he had stacked his rifle with thousands of others, after the Sedan débâcle, his personal feelings had been lost in the shame of an immense aggregation. But now, when the hoof-beats of a German's horse on the road he had followed to school for many years drove him into concealment, his shame was keen. He was alone to bear the ordeal. Within him stirred an unreasoning blind hatred. His fingers closed on the butt of the revolver.

Behind him the forest and fields were silent. The wolves, claimed by popular legend to have followed the German invasion from the depths of the Black Forest, had not yet begun their nightly concert. The snow, which had fallen steadily throughout the day, was falling with the coming of twilight. Great flakes still floated lazily out of the black sky. At each gust of the icy wind the tree branches creaked, and tiny avalanches slid noiselessly to the deep drifts below.

The chimes of the neighboring villages suddenly rang out, with clear, prolonged echoes of bronze. They seemed very near, for sound carried far in the crisp air. Darlay was able to identify each steeple. There was Combeaufontaine; the other was Port-sur-Saone. And, much nearer, the bell of Echezbeau, his birthplace, pealed solemnly. How strange it was to hear those utterly familiar rings, mingling with the noise on the road, now quite near—hoof beats and the clang of steel, doubtless a rattling saber.

He lifted himself on his elbows, his broad shoulders a few inches above the snow, and peered at the road. Suddenly he laughed, a short, self derisive chuckle.

A peddler's cart had rounded the bend of the highway.

It was drawn by an ancient mare, a bag of bones, unfit for any other service. The blanket covering the thin flanks, where ribs protruded like barrel hoops, was dingy, ragged. Hardware, rattling in the body of the cart, had to his intense imagination, supplied the rattling of the saber.

The peddler, a young man, Darlay noticed with surprize, was hunched on the seat, holding the reins listlessly between gloved fingers. A pipe was suspended from his lips, and the tobacco smoke mingled in a blue haze with the vapor of his breathing. His nose was moist and red, and altogether he was far from warlike.

Darlay slid down the embankment in a cloud of flying snow and nimbly leaped to the center of the road. Startled, the driver reached for the whip in the socket at his right, with an instinctive gesture toward the nearest object that might be used as a weapon.

"Good evening," Darlay called out.

"Good evening, yourself," the peddler answered. "You gave me a scare!"

"Which merely evens things up," Darlay declared. "I mistook your horse and your tinware for a whole squadron of Uhlans." He glanced at the man's face but did not recognize him. "You're not from this part, are you?”

“No. I'm Alsatian. But I've been around here a few days.”

"Could you tell me if the Darlay farm is occupied by the Prussians?"

"Darlay?" repeated the peddler. "I don't know the name."

"A big farm, about a mile from here, on the right as you drive up. Red-tiled roof, closed yard, an orchard between it and the road. Can't miss seeing it."

"I just sold the boss some kitchen things. No, there are no Prussians there."

"The boss? How is he?"