The priest drew in his breath sharply. "So!" he said. "You were the man at Quimper; I have often thought of you. And you are now Charles Simon."

Simon motioned to a bale of net cord. "Will you sit down, father?" he said. "I have much to say to you."

The priest sat down, and waited for him to begin.

"Father," said Simon at last. "Do you remember what we talked about that night?"

"I remember very well, my son. We spoke about the Power of God, and of fire."

"Yes," said Simon, "that is what we spoke about. I was a spy then, father, in France on a mission for the English, to learn German secrets."

The priest glanced at him curiously. "Who are you?" he asked. "You are a Frenchman, from the East?"

Charles shook his head. "I am an Englishman," he said, "though I have lived in France for half my life. I am a British officer."

The priest nodded. "I have heard of others such as you."

There was a momentary silence. "There are others like me," Simon said at last. "We are lonely people, father, without homes or wives or families-not quite like other men. It may be that we see more clearly to the end than men who live more normally. I know that when you spoke to me that night about fire, the temporal weapon of Holy Church, you set me thinking, searching, and devising on the basis of your words. In England, by sheer chance I came upon men learning the use of fire. So that in the end, father, we brought fire to the Germans here, and your words were fulfilled."

"There is no chance in these affairs, my son," the priest said gently. "Only the hand of God."

Simon inclined his head. "There is a young man with me here," he said, "wounded, and in no good condition. He cannot travel far; he should be in a hospital. He is a British officer, like me, father, but he speaks only English. He is the gunner of the flame-gun that we used."

He paused. The priest said nothing.

Simon went on: "When we were talking together in the night, at Quimper, you said that God from time to time reveals the secret of the temporal weapon to mankind, that they may fight the Powers of Evil in the world, and beat them down. I am a sinful man, father, weak in the faith. I do not know if what you say is true. But if it is, then I say this to you: This young man with me, this young Englishman, has been touched by the hand of God for the benefit of all mankind. All that we have done has been made possible by his great knowledge of the principles of fire. He is a chemist in times of peace. Much of the gun itself was made to his design, and he designed the oil we hurl upon the Germans. There is knowledge and experience locked up in his head which is possessed by no one else. If he should die, or else be given to the Germans, knowledge that has been revealed to him by God goes back to God, and we are as we were. It may be that it is destined to be so."

Father Augustine said: "All things are in the hands of God, my son. But that does not mean that we are to lie supine, or refuse to use the wit and strength that God has given us, to work His will."

Simon nodded. "So I think. Father, we must get this young man back to England, that the work may go on."

There was a pause. "You have done great things in Douarnenez," the priest said slowly, "by the Grace of God. It was to the English that the temporal weapon was revealed before; again it is the English who are His instruments. I do not understand why this is so, why not the French. But that is by the way. Through that Grace and the power of flame this region has regained its courage. Men now go about our streets with their heads up, spitting towards the Germans, who three months ago were sullen and impotent, sinking into slavery. I have no need to hesitate, my son. I will give you what help lies within my power."

He glanced at Simon. "There are only two of you to be helped out of France?"

Simon said: "Only one." He nodded to the bed. "The others, they were all Bretons. They have found safety, each in his own way."

"What will you do, yourself?"

Simon said: "I speak French well enough to pass in the crowd, father. We need only think of him, of getting him to England."

The priest said keenly: "They are saying in the town, Charles Simon says no harm will come to the hostages."

Simon coloured awkwardly, and said nothing. "Is that correct, my son?"

"We have one thing to do, father, and one thing only. That is to see that this young man gets back to England. Let us talk of that."

"As you will."

They sat in earnest conversation for an hour. Then the priest went away; he came back late that night, to meet the doctor and Bozallec in the net shed with Simon. They sat in earnest conference far into the night before breaking up, the priest to walk boldly through the moonlit streets, the others to slink furtively in the shadows back to the open windows of their homes.

On November the 12th, in the forenoon, they roused Rhodes from a semi-coma, and made him get out of bed. The doctor gave him an injection in the unwounded arm; he began to feel stronger, and much clearer in the head. They made him walk about a little in the loft, to ease his legs. Then they told him what he had to do.

"It is only three hundred yards," Charles Simon said. "Whatever happens you must walk that naturally. You will be quite alone, but we shall be not twenty yards behind you. You must pay no attention to the hand grenades. Walk straight down to the quay, and to the boat"

Rhodes said: "What will you do, sir?"

Simon said: "Don't worry about me. I shall be close behind you as you walk, to signal for the hand grenades to be let off, if it is necessary. If all is very quiet and safe, then I will come with you in the boat. But you are not to wait for me. If there is trouble I shall merge in with the crowd and I shall come back to England by the way I know, the way I went before, in February. In that case I shall be in London before you."

They brought water then and shaved Rhodes, and washed his face and cut his hair to a close, stubbly crop. And then they led him downstairs from the loft, into the sail-maker's yard. There was a light rain falling; the cold air blew fresh into his face, making him dizzy and light-headed. The injection that he had been given had cleared his head, but he still had a high temperature; he felt his way uncertainly, as if he were walking upon marbles.

Bozallec turned to Simon and the doctor. "He is very weak, that one," he said. "He will never walk like a German."

Dottin eyed Rhodes critically. "I have another dose for him," he said. "He will be better than this."

Simon said: "I will talk to him. He has great nervous strength to draw upon, and it is only three hundred metres."

There was a hand-cart in the yard, a two-wheeled affair with a long handle. Bozallec lifted up this handle to the horizontal, and Simon and the doctor helped Rhodes to get up on to the platform. They laid him down upon it, making him as comfortable as possible with a sail as a cover and a pillow; then they covered him over with a heap of fine blue sardine nets.

In that way they wheeled him boldly out into the street and hah' a mile through the town, past ragged German soldiers staring into shops, past German soldiers in brand-new uniforms walking uncomfortably in new boots, past German sentries upon guard at the street corners. They wheeled him into a small covered yard through double doors, which they closed behind them. There they uncovered him, and helped him into the house, and sat him down in a cane rocking-chair in the shabby little back room of a shop.

Dottin bent over him. "Cognac," he said quietly in French.

"Just a little, with water, in a glass."

He felt better after that. An old man, whom he did not know, poured him a bowl of soup from a great pot that stood upon the hearth; Simon crouched down beside his chair and fed it to him with a spoon. "There is still an hour to go," he said. "Stay quiet here, and rest."

Rhodes drowsed a little, hot and tired. From time to time he opened his eyes; nothing was changed. He could see through the open door of the back room into the shop; it appeared to be a small general shop, with a few groceries, vegetables, and household goods upon the shelves. The old man was pottering about behind the counter.

Presently there were more people in the back room, and in the shop. There was a priest, Rhodes said, in a black soutane, as well as Simon and the doctor and the old fisherman who had brought him there. The doctor and the priest came into the back room and stood behind the door, screened from the shop. Simon and Bozallec stood smoking in the shop, chatting to the old man behind the counter.

In a few minutes the bell at the shop door jangled, and the door opened and closed. A man came forward to the counter. He was a German petty officer in uniform; over his jumper he wore a short pea jacket, with a blue muffler round his throat. There was an automatic pistol in a holster at his belt. He moved forward, and said something to the man behind the counter. From the back room Rhodes watched, tense and suddenly awake.

The old man stooped beneath the counter. "It is a special favour," he said in Breton French. "I would not do this for everyone. One hundred and fifty francs." And furtively he showed a duck, plucked and dressed and ready for the oven.

The German said: "It is too much," and leaned across the counter to pinch the breast. Rhodes saw Bozallec lift his right arm quickly and strike it down into the middle of the German's back. There was a thumping, rending sound and the man spun round, fumbling at his holster. Then they were all on him and bore him down on to the floor. There was one stifled cry, and then nothing but the heavy breathing of men struggling upon the ground. And presently that ceased, and Simon and Bozallec got up, dusting their clothes. The German lay motionless upon the floor, face down, his scarf bound tightly round his face. It was only then Rhodes saw the handle of the knife.

The old man said: "Quickly. Into the back room, before he bleeds."

They carried the body in and laid it down at Rhodes's feet; he saw the old man with a bucket and swab cleaning the floor of the shop. Then the door was shut, and they began to strip the pea jacket and uniform from the German.

Simon said: "Come on, lad. Up you get, and get your things off."

Presently Rhodes had German trousers on and German boots; the jumper, roughly wiped, was ready for him. Dottin, the doctor, opened his little case, filled bis hypodermic carefully against the light, and gave him the injection. He wiped the puncture with a pad of wool. "So," he said in heavily accented English. "Now you will be able to walk well."

They wiped his face over with a cold wet towel, several times, and wiped his hands and his ears. Then, very carefully and gently, they inserted his wounded arm into the jumper, and arranged the light blue, striped collar on his shoulders. And then they helped him into the pea jacket.

Dottin said: "I will go down and warn them to be ready for him with the boat." He left the room.

Rhodes stared around him, seeing everything with a new clarity. There was a dead man at his feet, whose clothes he now was wearing. Simon was adjusting the scarf at his neck; his arm was throbbing painfully. He glanced down at the body. "What will you do with-that?" he asked.

Simon said: "Bozallec is going to look after him. I think he will stuff him down a sewer, probably."

With every minute Rhodes could think more clearly. "I don't like it," he said uneasily. "These people here are running a most frightful risk for us. Everybody seems to be. If the Germans get to know of this they'll all be in an awful jam."

Simon stood before him, face to face. "Rhodes, pay attention to me now," he said earnestly. "It all depends on you. These people, they have taken a great risk for you; you must not let them down. If you are caught and found to be an Englishman the Germans will make a search, and they will find this body, and these people will be shot and all their wives and little children will be shot also. That is what the Germans do, in a case like this. That is what these men have risked, so that you may go free."

Rhodes drew a deep breath. "That passes the buck to me," he said.

Simon nodded. "How are you feeling now?"

"I'm feeling pretty well all right."

"Can you walk straight and steadily now, stepping out like a German?"

"I think I can. Tell me the way again."

Simon said: "It is barely three hundred yards. When you go out of this door turn to the right, that way, and go straight down the street, down-hill towards the harbour. Remember that you are a German, that you walk stiff and erect. You must not stop, you must not look around you; you are a German sailor upon duty. When you come out on the quay you will see steps immediately ahead of you, down to the water. Walk straight to them and down into the boat that will be waiting there. Sit down in the stern exactly in the middle, and sit up very straight and motionless as they row you off."

"Very good, sir."

Simon said: "If there is any trouble for you, we will make explosions as I said. Pay no attention to them; walk straight on. A German upon duty is like that."

The priest stepped forward from the background and spoke in French to Simon. Simon turned to Rhodes. "He wants to bless you," he said quietly. "You must kneel down." He took Rhodes by his arm and helped him down on to the floor.

The scene stayed etched deep in Rhodes's memory. The dingy little room, the murdered German on the floor by him stripped and squalid in his underclothes, the Bretons standing by with inclined heads, the low words of Latin passing over him. The priest followed with a few sentences in French that Rhodes did not understand. Then Simon helped him to his feet.

Simon said in a low tone: "He said this. He asked that you should be taken safe to England through the dangers of the sea and the dangers of battle and the dangers of the air, so that fire might come again, through you, against the Germans in France."

Rhodes turned to the father. "Fire will come again," he said, "whether I get back or I don't. In England there are other chaps like me. But if I get back safely to my country I shall remember what you people have done for us, all my life."

Simon translated; Father Augustine nodded, smiling gently at Rhodes. Then they led him out into the shop, now as neat and tidy as before. At the door into the street they paused and peered out through the lace curtain covering the half-window. "All is clear," said Simon. "Turn to the right immediately you get out, and straight down to the quay. We shall meet in London."

Rhodes opened the door, and stepped out into the marketplace. A fair number of civilians were passing, and there were a number of German soldiers strolling about, newcomers to the town. He turned to the right, and began to walk down the narrow, cobbled street towards the harbour.

He went dizzily, desperately trying to control the movements of his limbs. Each step must be confident and firm-so. He must not look at the ground at his feet, but well ahead of him. He must hold himself straight-it was only three hundred yards. Only about two hundred and fifty now. Here was a raised kerb coming that he must step over without stumbling-that was a good one. Two hundred yards only, now. He was feeling sick. God, he must not be sick. He must walk straight, he must keep upright, he... must... not... be... sick.

Simon and Bozallec followed down the lane behind him, about twenty yards behind. Now and again they saw him make a false step and sway a little; each time he pulled himself together and went on firmly. At half the distance Bozallec said: "He is doing well, that one. I did not think that he would do so well."

Simon said: "I think he will succeed."

They followed on behind, watching him as he went. There were eyes on him all down the narrow street, eyes that watched him from behind lace curtains, through the chinks of doors, from behind and from in front. Rhodes did not know it, but there were nearly fifty people watching each step that he made, praying for him each time he stumbled, cheered when he walked straight ahead down to the quay.

Simon and Bozallec, following behind, watchful, saw a German officer turn from the quay ahead and enter the lane, walking up to meet Rhodes. Barely fifty yards separated them. Bozallec said quickly: "That officer is clever. He will see."

Simon drew a red bandana handkerchief from the trouser pocket of his blue serge trousers and flourished it before blowing his nose. Immediately from an alley by their side there was a sharp, cracking detonation. The officer ahead shot into a doorway, grasping the Luger at his belt. Another explosion followed a little way away, and then a third.

Simon and Bozallec broke into a run, dashed forward past Rhodes stumbling forward in a dream, and checked themselves in confusion opposite the officer. They turned, looking backwards up the street. Bozallec said to the officer, panting and excited: "An explosion, Monsieur le Capitaine. Truly, that was a bomb."

Behind their backs, screening him from the German, Rhodes stumbled forward to the quay. "I know that, fool," snarled the officer. "I know what a bomb sounds like. This is your treachery again; this town will pay for it."

Rhodes was clear; they turned and ran ahead of him again down to the quay. A fourth explosion sounded up the street. They came out on to the quay, and met a crowd of French and Germans flocking to the entrance of the alley. Simon turned and pointed to the lane. "Up there," he shouted. "Somebody has let bombs off, up there. The officer wants help!"

All eyes were on him; in the confusion Rhodes passed out of the lane on to the quay. The steps lay before him. He passed through the crowd unnoticed, walked steadily with a desperate concentration. He went straight down the steps. There was a boat waiting at the bottom with men ready at the oars.

A hand steadied him as he got into the boat, as he sat down at the stern. "Sit stiff and upright-so," a voice whispered. "That is the way they sit in boats, those swine."

They pushed off, and rowed out into the harbour to the black sardine-boat lying at the mooring.

On the quay the tumult soon died down. Bozallec stood with Simon leaning on the rail, looking out over the harbour. One by one the fishing-boats were slipping their moorings, backing and turning, moving out into the bay towards the shepherding Raumboote. It was already evening.

Bozallec said presently: "That is the one. That one going astern behind the tunnyman." He looked round at the weather. "Rain tonight," he said. "It will be easy for them to work out to the north. Tomorrow morning he will be in Falmouth."

He turned to Simon with something like reverence. "What will you do, monsieur?"

Simon stirred. "I shall go up to the hotel," he said. "The Hotel de Commerce. I want to sleep in a bed for tonight."

He was still in the fisherman's clothes that they had all worn upon Genevieve. He had a few hundred francs in French money; he went up to the market-place and bought himself a suit of clothes, a new shirt, and a collar and tie. He bought a very cheap fibre suitcase to put the other clothes in, and carrying that he walked along to the hotel.

He spent the evening in the hotel, as he had spent so many other evenings of his life in France, sitting in the cafe reading a paper, smoking, drinking Pernod, and watching a couple at the next table play a game of draughts. The proprietor was not there that evening, and no one noticed hun. He dined well, with as good a bottle of Burgundy as the house could produce, and went up early to his bed.

He slept late, and it was after nine when he came down to the cafe in the morning. He called through the kitchen door for a cup of coffee and a brioche; the proprietor brought it to him himself. He stared at Simon when he saw him.

"Monsieur has stayed with us before?" he enquired. "Your face is familiar."

Simon said: "I was here in February last, on business. You told me then about Father Zacharias, and the little boy, Jules."

"I remember," said the innkeeper. "You were travelling in cement."

He left Simon to his coffee, but presently he came back again, carrying a big black book. He opened this and laid it on the table, with a pen and a bottle of ink. "Monsieur did not register last night," he said. "If he would be so good. Name, Christian name, occupation, and address."

Simon took the pen and put down "Simon-Charles." Then he glanced up at the innkeeper. "My occupation is that I am an officer in the British Army," he said, "and my address is in London. Shall I put that down?"

The man stared at him. "Charles Simon," he breathed. "Are you crazy? I remember now-that was your name before."

"It is still my name. I have never had another."

"You do not understand. The Germans come each day to see this book." He stared at the entry. "There are only three names above. I will take the page out, and three separate people can then write the names again."

"What time do the Germans come?" asked Simon.

"After dejeuner, always at the same time."

Simon got to his feet. "It will not matter to me if they see it then," he said. "Do as you like about the book."

The man said: "Where are you going to? Stay here, indoors, and I will arrange something. There are people in Douarne-nez who will help you, monsieur."

Simon said: "The people here are in trouble enough over me. I am going first to the presbytery."