ened up and looked over his shoulder.

"For the Boches are in Nivelle woods," he added, with an oath, "and we
ought to be on our way to Sainte Lesse, if we are to arrive there at all.
_Allons_, comrade, take him by the head!"

So the wounded airman bent over and took the body by the shoulders; the
gendarme lifted the feet; the little bell-mistress followed, holding to
one of the sagging arms, as though fearing that these strangers might take
away from her this dead man who had been so much more to her than a mere
lover.

When they laid him in the market cart she released his sleeve with a sob.
Still crying, she climbed to the seat of the cart and gathered up the
reins. Behind her, flat on the floor of the cart, the airman and the
gendarme had seated themselves, with the young man's body between them.
They were opening his tunic and shirt now and were whispering together,
and wiping away blood from the naked shoulders and chest.

"He's still warm, but there's no pulse," whispered the airman. "He's dead
enough, I guess, but I'd rather hear a surgeon say so."

The gendarme rose, stepped across to the seat, took the reins gently from
the girl.

"Weep peacefully, little one," he said; "it does one good. Tears are the
tisane which strengthens the soul."

"Ye-es.... But I am remembering that--that I was not very k-kind to him,"
she sobbed. "It hurts--_here_--" She pressed a slim hand over her breast.

"_Allons!_ Friends quarrel. God understands. Thy friend back there--he
also understands now."

"Oh, I hope he does!... He spoke to me so tenderly--yet so gaily. He was
even laughing at me when they shot him. He was so kind--and droll--" She
sobbed anew, clasping her hands and pressing them against her quivering
mouth to check her grief.

"Was it an execution, then?" demanded the gendarme in his growling voice.

"They said he must be a franc-tireur to wear such a uniform----"

"Ah, the scoundrels! Ah, the assassins! And so they murdered him there
under the tree?"

"Ah, God! Yes! I seem to see him standing there now--his grey, kind
eyes--and no thought of fear--just a droll smile--the way he had with
me--" whispered the girl, "the way--_his_ way--with me----"

"Child," said the gendarme, pityingly, "it _was_ love!"

But she shook her head, surprised, the tears still running down her tanned
cheeks:

"Monsieur, it was more serious than love; it was friendship."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE AVIATOR

Where the