e the
Prussian beast----"

"Sh-h-h!"

"There is no one, I tell you. She will strike the Prussian beast with
her mighty arm harder than our poor noble boy could do with his young
hand. Is it not so?"

The girl looked wistfully into the dusk. "I thought we would hear from
him when we had the great news from America."

"That is because you are a silly child, my sweet Florette, and think
that America is a magician. We must be patient. We do not even know all
that her great president said. We are fed with lies----"

"Sh-h-h!"

"And how can we hear from Armand, my dear, when the Prussians do not
even let us know what America's president said? All will be well in good
time."

"He is dead," said the girl, uncomforted. "I have had a dream that he is
dead. And it is I that killed him."

"This is a silly child," said old Pierre.

"America is full of Prussians--spies," said the girl, "and they have his
name on a list. They have killed him. They are murderers!"

"Sh-h-h," warned her mother again.

"Yes, they are murderers," said old Pierre, "but this is a silly child
to talk so. We have borne much silently. Can we not be a little patient
now?"

"I _hate_ them!" sobbed the girl, abandoning all caution. "They drove
him away and we will see him no more,--my brother--Armand!"

"Hush, my daughter," her mother pleaded. "Listen! I heard a footstep.
They are spying and have heard."

For a moment neither spoke and there was no sound but the girl's quick
breaths as she tried to control herself. Then there was a slight
rustling in the shrubbery and they waited in breathless suspense.

"I knew it," whispered Madame; "we are always watched. Now it has come."

Still they waited, fearfully. Another sound, and old Pierre rose, pushed
his rustic chair from him and stood with a fine, soldierly air, waiting.
His wife was trembling pitiably and Florette, her eyes wide with grief
and terror, watched the dark bushes like a frightened animal.

Suddenly the leaves parted and they saw a strange disheveled figure. For
a moment it paused, uncertain, then looked stealthily about and emerged
into the open. The stranger was hatless and barefoot and his whole
appearance was that of exhaustion and fright. When he spoke it was in a
strange language and spasmodically as if he had been running hard.

"Leteur?" he asked, looking from one to the other; "the name--Leteur? I
can't speak French," he added, somewhat bewildered and clutching an
uprig