Part 20 (1/2)

Pochard's comment was to the point, at any rate. ”I congratulate you, monsieur,” he said. ”I'll do a bit in that line myself when this little one is lodged with his aunt in Huy. If every Belgian accounts for two Prussians, you'll hold them till the French and English join up.”

”Do you know for certain where the English are?” put in Dalroy eagerly.

”Yes, at Charleroi. The French are in Namur. Come with me to Huy. A few days, and the _sales Alboches_ will be pelting back to the Rhine.”

For the second time Dalroy heard a slang epithet new to him applied to the Germans. He little guessed how familiar the abbreviated French form of the word would become in his ears. Briton, Frenchman, Slav, and Italian have cordially adopted ”Boche” as a suitable term for the common enemy. It has no meaning, yet conveys a sense of contemptuous dislike.

Stricken France had no heart for humour in 1870. The merciless foe was then a ”Prussian”; in 1914 he became a ”Boche,” and the change held a comforting significance.

Dalroy, of course, did not share the Frenchman's opinion as to the speedy discomfiture of the invader; but night was falling, the offer of shelter was too good to be refused. Nevertheless, he was careful to reveal a real difficulty. ”Unfortunately, we have a dead woman in the cart,” he said. ”Madame Stauwaert, too, is ill, but she has recovered from a fainting fit, I see.”

”Ah, poor Stauwaert!” murmured the other. ”A decent fellow. I saw them kill him. And that's his wife, of course. I didn't recognise her before.”

Dalroy was relieved to find that the Frenchman and the bereaved woman were friends. He had not forgotten the priest's statement that there would be a spy in every group in that part of Belgium. Later he ascertained that Monsieur Pochard was a well-to-do leather merchant in Andenne, who, like many others, refused to abandon a long-established business for fear of the Germans; doubtless he was destined to pay a heavy price for his tenacity ere the war ended. He behaved now as a true Samaritan, urging an immediate move, and promising even to arrange for Madame Joos's burial. Dalroy helped him to carry the child, a three-year-old boy, who was very sleepy and peevish, and did not understand why he should not be at home and in bed.

Joos suffered them to lead him where they listed. He walked by the side of the cart, and told ”Lise” how he had dealt with the Uhlan. Leontine sobbed afresh, and tried to stop him, but he grew quite angry.

”Why shouldn't she know?” he snapped. ”It is her affair, and mine. You screamed, and turned away, but I hacked at him till his wind-pipe hissed.”

Monsieur Pochard brought them to Huy by a rough road among the hills.

It was a dreadful journey in the gloaming of a perfect summer's evening.

The old man's ghoulish jabbering, the sobs of the women, the panting of two exhausted dogs, and the wailing of the child, who wanted his father's arms round him rather than a stranger's, supplied a tragic chorus which ill beguiled that _Via Dolorosa_ along the heights of the Meuse.

Irene insisted on taking the boy for a time, and the youngster ceased his plaint at once.

”That's a blessed relief,” she confided to Dalroy. ”I'm not afflicted with nerves, but this poor little chap's crying was more than I could bear.”

”He is too heavy that you should carry him far,” he protested.

”You're very much of a man, Arthur,” she said quietly. ”You don't realise, I suppose, that nature gives us women strong arms for this very purpose.”

”I hadn't thought of that. The fact is, I'm worried. I have a doubt at the back of my head that we ought to be going the other way.”

”Which other way?”

”In precisely the opposite direction.”

”But what can we do? At what stage in our wanderings up to this very moment could we have parted company with our friends? Do you know, I have a horrible feeling that we have brought a good deal of avoidable misery on their heads? If we hadn't gone to the mill----”

”They would probably all have been dead by this time, and certainly both homeless and friendless,” he interrupted. Then he began telling her the fate of Vise, but was brought up short by an imperative whisper from Pochard. They were talking English, without realising it, and Huy was near.

”And why carry that sword?” added the Frenchman. ”It is useless, and most dangerous. Thrust it into a ditch.”

Dalroy obeyed promptly. He had thoughtlessly disregarded the sinister outcome if a patrol found him with such a weapon in his hand.

They came to Huy by a winding road through a suburb, meeting plenty of soldiers strolling to and from billets. Luck befriended them at this ticklish moment. None saw a little party turning into a lane which led to the back of the villa tenanted by Monsieur Pochard's married sister.

This lady proved both sympathetic and helpful. The cart, with its sad freight, was housed in a wood-shed at the bottom of the garden, and the dogs were stabled in the gardener's potting-shed.

”The ladies can share my bedroom and my daughter's,” she said. ”You men must sleep in the greenhouse, as every remaining room is filled with Uhlans. Their supper is ready now, but there is plenty. Come and eat before they arrive. They left on patrol duty early this morning.”

And that is where the fugitives experienced a stroke of amazing good fortune. That particular batch of Uhlans never returned. It was supposed that they were cut off while scouting along the Tirlemont road.