Part 26 (1/2)

”Oh, no,” she said navely; ”it is sadder than that. He was my friend.”

The big gendarme scratched his chin; then, with an odd glance at the young airman who stood beside him:

”To lose a friend is indeed sadder than to lose a lover. What was your friend's name, little one?”

She pressed her hand to her forehead in an effort to search among her partly paralyzed thoughts:

”Djack.... That is his name.... He was the first real friend I ever had.”

The airman said:

”He is one of my countrymen--an American muleteer, Jack Burley--in charge at Sainte Lesse.”

At the sound of the young man's name p.r.o.nounced in English the girl began to cry. The big gendarme bent over and patted her cheek.

”_Allons_,” he growled; ”courage! little mistress of the bells! Let us place your friend in your pretty market cart and leave this accursed place, in G.o.d's name!”

He straightened up and looked over his shoulder.

”For the Boches are in Nivelle woods,” he added, with an oath, ”and we ought to be on our way to Sainte Lesse, if we are to arrive there at all.

_Allons_, comrade, take him by the head!”

So the wounded airman bent over and took the body by the shoulders; the gendarme lifted the feet; the little bell-mistress followed, holding to one of the sagging arms, as though fearing that these strangers might take away from her this dead man who had been so much more to her than a mere lover.

When they laid him in the market cart she released his sleeve with a sob.

Still crying, she climbed to the seat of the cart and gathered up the reins. Behind her, flat on the floor of the cart, the airman and the gendarme had seated themselves, with the young man's body between them.

They were opening his tunic and s.h.i.+rt now and were whispering together, and wiping away blood from the naked shoulders and chest.

”He's still warm, but there's no pulse,” whispered the airman. ”He's dead enough, I guess, but I'd rather hear a surgeon say so.”

The gendarme rose, stepped across to the seat, took the reins gently from the girl.

”Weep peacefully, little one,” he said; ”it does one good. Tears are the tisane which strengthens the soul.”

”Ye-es.... But I am remembering that--that I was not very k-kind to him,”

she sobbed. ”It hurts--_here_--” She pressed a slim hand over her breast.

”_Allons!_ Friends quarrel. G.o.d understands. Thy friend back there--he also understands now.”

”Oh, I hope he does!... He spoke to me so tenderly--yet so gaily. He was even laughing at me when they shot him. He was so kind--and droll--” She sobbed anew, clasping her hands and pressing them against her quivering mouth to check her grief.

”Was it an execution, then?” demanded the gendarme in his growling voice.

”They said he must be a franc-tireur to wear such a uniform----”