"Halt!"

M. Ulrich stooped, his hand on Jean's shoulder.

"Don't move," he whispered quickly. "I'll call them off, by turning towards the Minieres. As soon as they follow me, get up, run off, cross the road and then the little coppice--it's a straight line in front of you. Adieu."

He rose up, took a few steps cautiously, and then made off quickly through the woods.

"_Halt! Halt!_"

A report rang out, and as the noise died away under the branches M.

Ulrich's voice, already some distance off, called:

"Missed."

At the same moment Jean Oberle made a rush for the frontier. Head lowered, seeing nothing, his elbows squared, his chest lashed by the branches, he ran with all his might. He pa.s.sed within a few inches of a man lying in ambush. The branches were pushed aside, a whistle was blown, Jean redoubled his efforts. He reached the road unawares; another report rang out on the edge of the wood. Jean rolled over on the edge of the copse. Cries arose:

"Here he is! Here he is! Come."

Jean jumped up instantly and dived into the wood. He thought he had stumbled over a rut. He leapt into the copse. But his legs shook under him. He felt with anguish a growing faintness overcoming him.

The cries of his pursuers rang in his ears, everything swam before his eyes. He came upon an open s.p.a.ce, felt the fresh wind on his face and lost consciousness.

Late at night he came to his senses. A storm was raging over the forest; he saw that he was lying on a bed of green boughs, in an empty room of the disused farm, lit by a small lantern. A man was bending over him. Jean realised that it was a French keeper. His first sensation of fear was dissipated by the man's welcome smile.

"Were other shots fired?" he inquired.

"No, no others."

"So much the better; then Uncle Ulrich is safe--he accompanied me to the frontier. I was in the army, but I have come to be a soldier in our own land."

Jean saw that his tunic had been taken off and that there was blood on his shirt. It hurt him to breathe.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked.

"You were hit in the shoulder," said the man, who would have wept if he had not been too ashamed to do so. "It'll heal; fortunately, my comrade and I were making our rounds when you stumbled into the field. The doctor will be here at break of day--don't be alarmed, my comrade has gone to fetch him. Who are you?"

Half conscious, Jean Oberle replied: "Alsace----" but he could scarcely speak.

Rain was falling heavily; it hammered upon roof and doors, upon the trees and rocks surrounding the house. The tops of the trees shook and twisted in the storm like seaweed tossed upon the bosom of the ocean. The murmur of a million voices rose in harmony over the mountains, and thundered upon the night.

The wounded man listened--in his weakened state what did he hear? He smiled:

"It is France," he murmured; "she sings to me," and he fell back with closed eyes awaiting the dawn.