could not find one. They searched every house, they came here and
questioned me. Finally they caught one of the villagers hiding in a
field, and he was afraid and he told where the rifles had been buried.
The Prussians dug for them and the hole was empty. They believe they
are still hidden somewhere in the village; they fancy, too, that there
are secret stores of food; so they mean to burn the houses to the
ground. They did not know that I was here this afternoon. I would have
come into the French lines had it been possible, but I am tied here to
my bed. No doubt God had sent you to me--you and your fifty men. You
need not desert. You can make your last stand here for France."

"And perish," cried Fevrier, caught up from the depths of his
humiliation, "as Frenchmen should, arms in hand." Then his voice
dropped again. "But we have no arms."

The curé shook the lieutenant's arm gently.

"Did I not tell you the chassepôts were not found? And why? Because
too many knew where they were hidden. Because out of that many I
feared there might be one to betray. There is always a Judas. So I got
one man whom I knew, and he dug them up and hid them afresh."

"Where, father?"

The question was put with a feverish eagerness--it seemed to the curé
with an eagerness too feverish. He drew his hand, his whole body away.

"You have matches? Light one!" he said, in a startled voice.

"But the window--!"