er of the Albern Path, they saw a group of
journalists and sightseers gathered behind half-a-dozen gendarmes. The
whole road was thus guarded, as far as the Saint-Elophe rise. And, on
the right, German gendarmes stood posted at intervals.

They reached the Butte. The Butte is a large round clearing, on almost
level ground, surrounded by a circle of ancestral trees arranged like
the colonnade of a temple. The road, a neutral zone, seven feet wide,
runs through the middle.

On the west, the French frontier-post, in plain black cast-iron and
bearing a slab with directions, like a sign-post.

On the east, the German post, in wood painted with a black and white
spiral and surmounted by an escutcheon with the words, "_Deutsches
Reich_."

Two military tents had been pitched for the double enquiry and were
separated by a space of fifty or sixty yards. Above each waved the flag
of its respective country. A soldier was on guard outside either tent: a
Prussian infantryman, helmet on head, shin-strap buckled; an Alpine
rifleman, bonneted and gaitered. Each stood with his rifle at the order.

Not far from them, on either side of the clearing, were two little camps
pitched among the trees: French soldiers, German soldiers. And the
officers formed two groups.

French and German horizons showed in the mist between the branches.

"You see, Marthe, you see," whispered Philippe, whose heart was gripped
with emotion. "Isn't it terrible?"

"Yes, yes," she said.

But a young man came towards them, carrying under his arm a portfolio
bulging with papers:

"M. Philippe Morestal, I believe? I am M. de Trebons, attached to the
department of the under-secretary of state. M. Le Corbier is talking to
M. Morestal your father and begs that you will be good enough to wait."

He took him, with Marthe and Suzanne, to the French camp, where they
found, seated on a bench, Farmer Saboureux and Old Poussiere, who had
likewise been summoned as witnesses. From there, they commanded the
whole circus of the Butte.

"How pale you look, Philippe!" said Marthe. "Are you ill?"

"No," he said. "Please don't worry me."

Half an hour passed. Then the canvas fly that closed the German tent was
lifted and a number of persons came out.

Suzanne gave a stifled cry:

"Papa!... Look ... Oh, my poor father!... I must go and kiss him...."

Philippe held her back and she obeyed, feebly. Jorance, besides, had
disappeared, had been led by two gendarmes to the