good scare,
anyway."

"Well--I'll--be----" Archer began.

"Sh-h!" warned Tom. "We don't know yet why Frenchy's sister don't come.
But there weren't any soldiers here--that's one sure thing. We had a lot
of worry for nothin'. Come on."

CHAPTER VIII

THE HOME FIRE NO LONGER BURNS

"That's the first time I was everr scarred by a cow," said Archer, his
buoyant spirit fully revived, "but when I hearrd those footsteps overr
my head, _go-od night_! It's good you happened to think about looking
for footprints, hey?"

"I didn't _happen_ to," said Tom. "I always do. Same as you never forget
to get a souvenir," he added soberly.

"I'd like to get a sooveneerr from that cow, hey? _You_ needn't talk; if
it hadn't been for that wire, where'd we be now? Sooveneerrs arre all
right. But I admit you've got to have ideas to go with 'em."

"Thanks," said Tom.

"Keep the change," said Archer jubilantly. "Believe me, I don't carre
what becomes of me as long as I'm above ground--on terra cotta----"

"We've got to get away from here before daylight, so come on,"
interrupted Tom.

"Are we going up to the house?"

"What else can we do?"

The explanation of those appalling footfalls by no means explained the
failure of Florette to keep her promise, and the fugitives started along
the path which led to the house.

They walked very cautiously, Tom scrutinizing the earth-covered planking
for any sign of recent passing. The door of the stone kitchen stood
open, which surprised them, and they stole quietly inside. A lamp stood
upon the table, but there was no sign of human presence.

Tom led the way on tiptoe through the passage where they had passed
before, and into the main room where another lamp revealed a ghastly
sight. The heavy shutters were closed and barred, just as Florette had
closed them when she had brought the boys into the room. Upon the floor
lay old Pierre, quite dead, with a cruel wound, as from some blunt
instrument, upon his forehead. His whitish gray hair, which had made him
look so noble and benignant, was stained with his own blood. Blood lay
in a pool about his fine old head, and the old coat which he wore had
been torn from him, showing the stump of the arm which he had so long
ago given to his beloved France.

Near him lay sprawled upon the floor a soldier in a gray uniform, also
dead. A little bullet wound in his temple told the tale. Beside him was
a black helmet with heavy brass chin gear. A