He could not follow them through the fields. He lay still, during a
fiercer bombardment than the one before, raising his head now and then
to see if the little house of mercy still stood. No shells came his
way, but the sky line of the village altered quickly. The standing
fragment of the church towers went early. There was much sound of
falling masonry. From somewhere behind him a Belgian battery gave
tongue, but not for long. And then came silence.
Henri moved then. He crept nearer the mill and nearer. And at last he
stood inside and took his bearings. A lamp burned in the kitchen,
showing a dirty brick floor and a littered table--such a house as men
keep, untidy and unhomelike. A burnt kettle stood on the hearth, and
leaning against the wall was the bag of grain Maurice had carried from
the crossroads.
"A mill which grinds without grain," Henri said to himself.
There was a boxed-in staircase to the upper floor, and there, with the
door slightly ajar, he stationed himself, pistol in hand. Now and then
he glanced uneasily at the clock. Sara Lee must not be back before he
had taken his prisoners to the little house and turned them over to
those who waited there.
There were footsteps outside, and Henri drew the door a little closer.
But he was dismayed to find it Marie. She crept in, a white and broken
thing, and looked about her.
"Maurice!" she called.
She sat down for a moment, and then, seeing the disorder about her, set
to work to clear the table. It was then that Henri lowered his pistol
and opened the door.
"Don't shriek, Marie," he said.
She turned and saw him, and clutched at the table.
"Monsieur!"
"Marie," he said quietly, "go up these stairs and remain quiet. Do not
walk round. And do not come down, no matter what you hear!"
She obeyed him, stumbling somewhat. For she had seen his revolver, and
it frightened her. But as she passed him she clutched at his sleeve.
"He is good--Maurice," she said, gasping. "Of the father I know nothing,
but Maurice--"
"Go up and be silent!" was all he said.
Now, by all that goes to make a story, Sara Lee should have met Mabel at
the Hotel des Arcades in Dunkirk, and should have been able to make that
efficient young woman burn with jealousy--Mabel, who from the safety of
her hospital in Boulogne considered Dunkirk the Front.
Indeed Sara Lee, to whom the world was beginning to seem very small, had
had some such faint hope. But Mabel was not there, and it was not until
long after that they met at all, and then only when the lights had gone
down and Sara Lee was again knitting by the fire.