Part 24 (2/2)

By a cas.e.m.e.nt window a girl, with hair like the dusk, stood gazing towards the road that was hidden in darkness. Silently and motionless she watched the melancholy drops of rain as they fell upon the gla.s.s, until, unconsciously, her lips parted and she sang, very softly, the little song taught to the maiden in the story by the lonely shepherd:

”Maman, dites moi ce qu'on sent quand on aime.

Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?”

She paused in the improvised melody, and repeated the words slowly.

”Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?”

And then the little mistress of the mill laid herself upon her bed and wept profusely; but whether it was because she was happy or because she was sorrowful, let those explain who understand the psychology of a woman's tears.

Downstairs, Louis and the miller slept profoundly.

V

It was several months later that an airman emerged from his hut into the chilly air of an April night that was lingering grudgingly over its last hour of darkness. There was a sullen rumble of guns borne on a restless breeze that stirred the long gra.s.s of the fields and set the leaves in the trees whispering and quivering. The drone could be heard of a lonely aeroplane returning from its night-ride over the enemy lines.... Above the distant roll of the artillery, one gun stood out like a pizzicato note on a giant ba.s.s violin.

The airman pa.s.sed the silent aerodrome, and, with difficulty accustoming himself to the darkness, made out the shadow of a machine in the adjoining field. He heard the sigh of cylinders sucking in the petrol as the mechanics warmed the machine, and walked over to it. For a moment he spoke to the men before climbing into the pilot's seat.

There followed the incisive monotone of the flier's incantation between himself and the non-commissioned officer.

”Petrol on: switch off.”

”Petrol on: switch off.”

”Contact.”

”Contact.”

The propellers were swung into action, hesitated for a moment, then wheezily subsided.

The incantation was repeated; the propeller blades coughed, and leaped into a deafening roar. The mechanics sprang aside, and the machine, stumbling forward for a few yards, turned into the wind. There was a sudden acceleration of the propeller, a crescendo from the engines, and the machine made swiftly across the field, rising as it attained flying speed, and disappearing into the night.

A few moments later its light was mixing with the dulling stars, and the drone of its engine could be heard only at the whim of the breeze.

”I wonder what the Black Cat's up to now,” said mechanic No. 1, rubbing his hands together for warmth. ”Rum beggar, isn't he?”

His companion slapped his breast with his arms and blew on his fingers.

”Mad as a March hare,” he growled; ”takes a two-seater out at this time of night.”

”And did you notice the extra outfit?”

”He's mad,” repeated the before-dawn psychologist, ”mad as a rabbit.”

”But he's a mighty stout boy,” interposed the N.C.O., who was torn between his duty of keeping discipline and his love of character study; ”and he sure puts the wind up Fritz when he takes off with his Black Cat Bristol fighter.”

The blackness of night was beginning to give way to a dull and sullen gray as the solitary pilot made a detour over the lines. In the gloom beneath he could see a long crescent of orange-colored flashes where the British guns were maintaining their endless pounding of the enemy.

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