The girl drove with loose and careless rein and in silence; and beside her sat Burley, his troubled gaze always reverting to the despondent form beside him.

"Too bad, little girl," he said. "But another time our wounded shall listen to your carillon."

"Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France--the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack--a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one's gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there--through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of G.o.d!--so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land----"

"Maryette--I am so sorry for you----"

"Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!"

"Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette----"

"No--my heart is broken----"

"Vooz ates tray, tray belle----"

The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now--too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart.

A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers:

"Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us.

That is not regulation in England--that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?"

There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling.

"Answer, do you hear? What are you?"

"American."

"Pig-dog!" shouted the gaunt officer. "So you are one of those Yankee muleteers in your uniform, and armed! It is sufficient that you are American. If it had not been for America this war would be ended! But it is not enough, apparently, that you come here with munitions and food, that you insult us at sea, that you lie about us and slander us and send your sh.e.l.ls and cartridges to England to slay our people! No! Also you must come to insult us in your clown's uniform and with your pistol--" The man began to choke with fury, unable to continue, except by gesture.

But the jerky gestures were terribly significant: soldiers were already pushing Burley across the road toward a great oak tree; six men fell out and lined up.

"M-my Government--" stammered the young fellow--but was given no opportunity to speak. Very white, the chill sweat standing on his forehead and under his eyes, he stood against the oak, lips compressed, grey eyes watching what was happening to him.

Suddenly he understood it was all over.

"Djack!"

He turned his gaze toward Maryette, where she struggled toward him, held by two soldiers.

"Maryette--Carillonnette--" His voice suddenly became steady, perfectly clear. "_Je vous aime_, Carillonnette."

"Oh, Djack! Djack!" she cried in terror.

He heard the orders; was aware of the levelled rifles; but his reckless greyish eyes were now fixed on her, and he began to laugh almost mischievously.

"Vooz etes tray belle," he said, "--tray, tray chick----"

"Djack!"

But the clang of the volley precluded any response from him except the half tender, half reckless smile that remained on his youthful face where he lay looking up at the sky with pleasant, sightless eyes, and a sunbeam touching the metal mule on his blood-wet collar.

CHAPTER XVII

FRIENDSHIP

She tried once more to lift the big, warm, flexible body, exerting all her slender strength. It was useless. It was like attempting to lift the earth. The weight of the body frightened her.

Again she sank down among the ferns under the great oak tree; once more she took his blood-smeared head on her lap, smoothing the bright, wet hair; and her tears fell slowly upon his upturned face.

"My friend," she stammered, "--my kind, droll friend.... The first friend I ever had----"

The gun thunder beyond Nivelle had ceased; an intense stillness reigned in the forest; only a leaf moved here and there on the aspens.

A few forest flies whirled about her, but as yet no ominous green flies came--none of those jewelled harbingers of death which appear with horrible promptness and as though by magic from nowhere when anything dies in the open world.

Her donkey, still attached to the little gaily painted market cart, had wandered on up the sandy lane, feeding at random along the fern-bordered thickets which walled in the Nivelle byroad on either side.

Presently her ear caught a slight sound; something stirred somewhere in the woods behind her. After an interval of terrible stillness there came a distant crashing of footsteps among dead leaves and underbrush.

Horror of the Hun still possessed her; the victim of Prussian ferocity still lay across her knees. She dared not take the chance that friendly ears might hear her call for aid--dared not raise her voice in appeal lest she awaken something monstrous, unclean, inconceivable--the unseen thing which she could hear at intervals prowling there among dead leaves in the demi-light of the woods.

Suddenly her heart leaped with fright; a man stepped cautiously out of the woods into the road; another, dressed in leather, with dry blood caked on his face, followed.

The first comer, a French gendarme, had already caught sight of the donkey and market cart; had turned around instinctively to look for their owner.

Now he discovered her seated there among the ferns under the oak tree.

"In the name of G.o.d," he growled, "what's that child doing there!"

The airman in leather followed him across the road to the oak; the girl looked up at them out of dark, tear-marred eyes that seemed dazed.

"Well, little one!" rumbled the big, red-faced gendarme. "What's your name?--you who sit here all alone at the wood's edge with a dead man across your knees?"

She made an effort to find her voice--to control it.

"I am Maryette Courtray, bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse," she answered, trembling.

"And--this young man?"

"They shot him--the Prussians, monsieur."

"My poor child! Was he your lover, then?"

Her tear-filled eyes widened: