it was Weisslicht he saw and, at night, he
was asleep ... he heard nothing ... not even the shooting.... And he
lives at five hundred yards from the spot!"

"I never heard of such a thing! What does he mean by backing out like
that?"

"I can't say," replied the magistrate. "Still, I saw a copy of the
_Boersweilener Zeitung_ sticking out of his pocket ... things have
altered since yesterday ... and Saboureux has been reflecting...."

"Do you think so? Is he afraid of war?"

"Yes, afraid of reprisals. He told me an old story about Uhlans, about a
farm that was burnt down. So that's what it is: he's afraid!..."

*
* *

The day began badly. Morestal and his son walked silently by the old
road to the frontier, where the enquiry was resumed in detail. But, at
the Butte, they saw three men in gold-laced caps smoking their pipes by
the German frontier-post.

And, further on, at the foot of the slope, in a sort of clearing on the
left, they perceived two more, lying flat on their stomachs, who were
also smoking.

And, around these two, there were a number of freshly-painted
black-and-yellow stakes, driven into the ground in a circle and roped
together.

In reply to a question put to them, the men said that that was the place
where Commissary Jorance had been arrested.

Now this place, adopted by the hostile enquiry, was on German territory
and at twenty yards beyond the road that marked the dividing-line
between the two countries!

Philippe had to drag his father away. Old Morestal was choking with
rage:

"They are lying! They are lying! It's scandalous.... And they know it!
Is it likely I should be mistaken? Why, I belong here! Whereas they ...
a pack of police-spies!..."

When he had grown calmer, he began his explanations over again. Philippe
next repeated his, in less definite terms, this time, and with a
hesitation which old Morestal, absorbed in his grievances, did not
observe, but which could not well escape the others.

The father and son returned to the Old Mill together, as on the day
before. Morestal was no longer so triumphant and Philippe thought of
Farmer Saboureux, who, warned by his peasant shrewdness, varied his
evidence according to the threat of possible events.

As soon as he reached home, he took refuge in his room. Marthe went up
to him and found him lying on the bed, with his head between his hands.
He would not even