franc-tireurs passed them,
looking up curiously into their faces. Tricasse dragged a
dilapidated cane-chair from the dirt-cave and placed it before
Lorraine as though he were inviting her to an imperial throne.

"Thank you," she said, sweetly, and seated herself, not
relinquishing Jack's hand.

Two tin basins of soup were brought to them; they ate it, soaking
bits of crust in it.

The men pretended not to watch them. With all their instinctive
delicacy these clumsy peasants busied themselves in guard-mounting,
weapon cleaning, and their cuisine, as though there was no such
thing as a pretty woman within miles. But it tried their gallantry
as Frenchmen and their tact as Lorraine peasants. Furtive glances,
deprecatory and timid, were met by the sweetest of smiles from
Lorraine or a kindly nod from Jack. Tricasse, utterly unbalanced by
his new role of protector of beauty, gave orders in fierce, agitated
whispers, and made sudden aimless promenades around the birch thicket.
In one of these prowls he discovered a toad staring at the camp-fire,
and he drew his sword with a furious gesture, as though no living
toad were good enough to intrude on the Chatelaine of the Chateau de
Nesville; but the toad hopped away, and Tricasse unbent his brows
and resumed his agitated prowl.

When Lorraine had finished her soup, Jack took both plates into
the cave and gave them to a man who, squatted on his haunches,
was washing dishes. Lorraine followed him and sat down on a
blanket, leaning back against the side of the cave.

"Wait for me," said Jack. She drew his head down to hers.

They lingered there in the darkness a moment, unconscious of the
amazed but humourous glances of the cook; then Jack went out and
found Tricasse, and walked with him to the top of the tree-clad
ridge.

A road ran under the overhanging bank.

"I didn't know we were so near a road," said Jack, startled.
Tricasse laid his finger on his lips.

"It is the high-road to Saint-Lys. We have settled more than one
Uhlan dog on that curve there by the oak-tree. Look! Here comes
one of our men. See! He's got something, too."

Sure enough, around the bend in the road slunk a franc-tireur,
loaded down with what appeared to be mail-sacks. Cautiously he
reconnoitred the bank, the road, the forest on the other side,
whistled softly, and, at Tricasse's answering whistle, came
puffing and blowing up the slope, and flung a mail-bag, a rifle,
a Bavarian helmet, and a G