"Light one!"

Every moment of time was now of value. Fevrier took the risk and lit
the match, shading it from the window so far as he could with his
hand.

"That will do."

Fevrier blew out the light. The curé had seen him, his uniform and his
features. He, too, had seen the curé, had noticed his thin emaciated
face, and the eyes staring out of it feverishly bright and
preternaturally large.

"Shall I tell you your malady, father?" he said gently. "It is
starvation."

"What will you, my son? I am alone. There is not a crust from one end
of Vaudère to the other. You cannot help me. Help France! Go to the
church, stand with your back to the door, turn left, and advance
straight to the churchyard wall. You will find a new grave there, the
rifles in the grave. Quick! There is a spade in the tower. Quick! The
rifles are wrapped from the damp, the cartridges too. Quick! Quick!"

Fevrier hurried downstairs, roused three of his soldiers, bade one of
them go from house to house and bring the soldiers in silence to the
churchyard, and with the others he went thither himself. In groups of
two and three the men crept through the street, and gathered about
the grave. It was already open. The spade was driven hard and quick,
deeper and deeper, and at last rang upon metal. There were seventy