omforting significance.

Dalroy, of course, did not share the Frenchman's opinion as to the
speedy discomfiture of the invader; but night was falling, the offer of
shelter was too good to be refused. Nevertheless, he was careful to
reveal a real difficulty. "Unfortunately, we have a dead woman in the
cart," he said. "Madame Stauwaert, too, is ill, but she has recovered
from a fainting fit, I see."

"Ah, poor Stauwaert!" murmured the other. "A decent fellow. I saw them
kill him. And that's his wife, of course. I didn't recognise her
before."

Dalroy was relieved to find that the Frenchman and the bereaved woman
were friends. He had not forgotten the priest's statement that there
would be a spy in every group in that part of Belgium. Later he
ascertained that Monsieur Pochard was a well-to-do leather merchant in
Andenne, who, like many others, refused to abandon a long-established
business for fear of the Germans; doubtless he was destined to pay a
heavy price for his tenacity ere the war ended. He behaved now as a true
Samaritan, urging an immediate move, and promising even to arrange for
Madame Joos's burial. Dalroy helped him to carry the child, a
three-year-old boy, who was very sleepy and peevish, and did not
understand why he should not be at home and in bed.

Joos suffered them to lead him where they listed. He walked by the side
of the cart, and told "Lise" how he had dealt with the Uhlan. Leontine
sobbed afresh, and tried to stop him, but he grew quite angry.

"Why shouldn't she know?" he snapped. "It is her affair, and mine. You
screamed, and turned away, but I hacked at him till his wind-pipe
hissed."

Monsieur Pochard brought them to Huy by a rough road among the hills.

It was a dreadful journey in the gloaming of a perfect summer's evening.
The old man's ghoulish jabbering, the sobs of the women, the panting of
two exhausted dogs, and the wailing of the child, who wanted his
father's arms round him rather than a stranger's, supplied a tragic
chorus which ill beguiled that _Via Dolorosa_ along the heights of the
Meuse.

Irene insisted on taking the boy for a time, and the youngster ceased
his plaint at once.

"That's a blessed relief," she confided to Dalroy. "I'm not afflicted
with nerves, but this poor little chap's crying was more than I could
bear."

"He is too heavy that you should carry him far," he protested.

"You're very much of a man, Arthur," she said quietly. "You don't
realise, I s