been working on the farm for some months past, that Goliah Steinberg,
the Prussian, as he was called; a tall, simple young fellow with
short, light hair, wearing a perpetual smile on his broad, pink face,
who had made himself Honore's chum. Had Father Fouchard traitorously
incited the man to take advantage of the girl? or had Silvine, sick at
heart and prostrated by the sorrow of parting with her lover, yielded
in a moment of unconsciousness? She could not tell herself; was dazed,
and saw herself driven by the necessity of her situation to a marriage
with Goliah. He, for his part, always with the everlasting smile on
his face, made no objection, only insisted on deferring the ceremony
until the child should be born. When that event occurred he suddenly
disappeared; it was rumored, subsequently that he had found work on
another farm, over Beaumont way. These things had happened three years
before the breaking out of the war, and now everyone was convinced
that that artless, simple Goliah, who had such a way of ingratiating
himself with the girls, was none else than one of those Prussian spies
who filled our eastern provinces. When Honore learned the tidings over
in Africa he was three months in hospital, as if the fierce sun of
that country had smitten him on the neck with one of his fiery
javelins, and never thereafter did he apply for leave of absence to
return to his country for fear lest he might again set eyes on Silvine
and her child.

The artilleryman's hands shook with agitation as Maurice perused the
letter. It was from Silvine, the first, the only one that she had ever
written him. What had been her guiding impulse, that silent,
submissive woman, whose handsome black eyes at times manifested a
startling fixedness of purpose in the midst of her never-ending
slavery? She simply said that she knew he was with the army, and
though she might never see him again, she could not endure the thought