armhouses
of the district round. No French force was within fifty miles of him,
and yet morning after morning he had to listen to a black report of
sentries found dead at their posts, or of foraging parties which had
never returned. Then the colonel would go forth in his wrath, and
farmsteadings would blaze and villages tremble; but next morning there
was still that same dismal tale to be told. Do what he might, he could
not shake off his invisible enemies. And yet it should not have been so
hard, for, from certain signs in common, in the plan and in the deed, it
was certain that all these outrages came from a single source.

Colonel von Gramm had tried violence, and it had failed. Gold might be
more successful. He published it abroad over the countryside that
500frs. would be paid for information. There was no response. Then
800frs. The peasants were incorruptible. Then, goaded on by a murdered
corporal, he rose to a thousand, and so bought the soul of Francois
Rejane, farm labourer, whose Norman avarice was a stronger passion than
his French hatred.

"You say that you know who did these crimes?" asked the Prussian
colonel, eyeing with loathing the blue-bloused, rat-faced creature
before him.

"Yes, colonel."

"And it was--?"

"Those thousand francs, colonel--"

"Not a sou until your story has been tested. Come! Who is it who has
murdered my men?"

"It is Count Eustace of Chateau Noir."

"You lie!" cried the colonel, angrily. "A gentleman and a nobleman
could not have done such crimes."

The peasant shrugged his shoulders. "It is evident to me that you do
not know the count. It is this way, colonel. What I tell you is the
truth, and I am not afraid that you should test it. The Count of
Chateau Noir is a hard man, even at the best time he was a hard man.
But of late he has been terrible. It was his son's death, you know.
His son was under Douay, and he was taken, and then in escaping from
Germany he met his death. It was the count's only child, and indeed we
all think that it has driven him mad. With his peasants he follows the
German armies. I do not know how many he has killed, but it is he who
cut the cross upon the foreheads, for it is the badge of his house."

It was true. The murdered sentries had each had a saltire cross slashed
across their brows, as by a hunting-knife. The colonel bent his stiff
back and ran his forefinger over the map which lay upon the table.

"The Chate