or
injured any German soldier, the village should be burned and the
provisions and stock confiscated for the use of King Wilhelm's
army.

Shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he sprang to his feet and
walked hastily to the terrace. Nothing was to be seen on the
road, nor yet in the meadows beyond. Up-stairs he heard
Lorraine's voice, and his aunt's voice, too. Sometimes they
laughed a little in low tones, and he even caught the rustle of
stiff silken embroidery against the window-sill.

His mind was made up in an instant; his coolness returned as the
colour returns to a pale cheek. The Uhlans had probably not seen
him; if they had, it made little difference, for even the picquet
that had chased him could not have recognized him at that
distance. Then, again, in a whole regiment it was not likely that
the three horsemen who had peeped at Morteyn through the
road-gate could have been part of that same cursed picquet. No,
the thing to avoid was personal contact with any of the 11th
Uhlans. This would be a matter of simple prudence; outside of
that he had nothing to fear from the Prussian army. Whenever he
saw the schapskas and lances he would be cautious; when these
lances were pennoned with black and white, and when the schapskas
and schabraques were edged with yellow, he would keep out of the
way altogether. It shamed him terribly to think of his momentary
panic; he cursed himself for a coward, and dug his clenched fists
into both pockets. But even as he stood there, withering himself
with self-scorn, he could not help hoping that his aunt and uncle
would find it convenient to go to Paris soon. That would leave
him free to take his own chances by remaining, to be near
Lorraine. For it did not occur to him that he might leave Morteyn
as long as Lorraine stayed.

It was late in the afternoon when he lighted a pipe and walked
out to the road, where the smooth macadam no longer bore the
slightest trace of wheel or hoof, and nobody could have imagined
that part of an army corps had passed there the night before.

He felt lonely and a little despondent, and he walked along the
road to the shrine of Our Lady of Morteyn and sat down at her
naked stone feet. And as he sat there smoking, twirling his
shooting-cap in his hands, without the least warning a horseman,
advancing noiselessly across the turf, passed him, carbine on
thigh, busby glittering with the silver skull and crossbones.
Before he could straighten up another