CHAPTER XVCARILLONETTE

CHAPTER XVCARILLONETTESticky Smith and Kid Glenn remained a week at Sainte Lesse, then left with the negroes for Calais to help bring up another cargo of mules, the arrival of which was daily expected.A peloton of the Train-des-Equipages and three Remount troopers arrived at Sainte Lesse to take over the corral. John Burley remained to explain and interpret the American mule to these perplexed troopers.Morning, noon, and night he went clanking down to the corral, his cartridge belt and holster swinging at his hip. But sometimes he had a little leisure.Sainte Lesse knew him as a mighty eater and as a lusty drinker of good red wine; as a mighty and garrulous talker, too, he be[pg 183]came known, ready to accost anybody in the quiet and subdued old town and explode into French at the slightest encouragement.But Burley had only women and children and old men on whom to practice his earnest and voluble French, for everybody else was at the front.Children adored him—adored his big, silver spurs, his cartridge belt and pistol, the metal mule decorating his tunic collar, his six feet two of height, his quick smile, the even white teeth and grayish eyes of this American muleteer, who always had a stick of barley sugar to give them or an amazing trick to perform for them with a handkerchief or coin that vanished under their very noses at the magic snap of his finger.Old men gossiped willingly with him; women liked him and their rare smiles in the war-sobered town of Sainte Lesse were often for him as he sauntered along the quiet street, clanking, swaggering, affable, ready for conversation with anybody, and always ready for the small, confident hands that unceremoni[pg 184]ously clasped his when he passed by where children played.As for Maryette Courtray, called Carillonnette, she mounted the bell-tower once every hour, from six in the morning until nine o'clock in the evening, to play the passing of Time toward that eternity into which it is always and ceaselessly moving.After nine o'clock Carillonnette set the drum and wound it; and through the dark hours of the night the bells played mechanically every hour for a few moments before Bayard struck.Between these duties the girl managed the old inn, to which, since the war, nobody came any more—and with these occupations her life was full—sufficiently full, perhaps, without the advent of John Burley.They met with enough frequency for her, if not for him. Their encounters took place between her duties aloft at the keyboard under the successive tiers of bells and his intervals of prowling among his mules.Sometimes he found her sewing in the parlour—she could have gone to her own room,[pg 185]of course; sometimes he encountered her in the corridor, in the street, in the walled garden behind the inn, where with basket and pan she gathered vegetables in season.There was a stone seat out there, built against the southern wall, and in the shadowed coolness of it she sometimes shelled peas.During such an hour of liberty from the bell-tower he found the dark-eyed little mistress of the bells sorting various vegetables and singing under her breath to herself the carillon music of Josef Denyn."Tray chick, mademoiselle," he said, with a cheerful self-assertion, to hide the embarrassment which always assailed him when he encountered her."You know, Monsieur Burley, you should not say 'très chic' to me," she said, shaking her pretty head. "It sounds a little familiar and a little common.""Oh," he exclaimed, very red. "I thought it was the thing to say."She smiled, continuing to shell the peas, then, with her sensitive and slightly flushed[pg 186]face still lowered, she looked at him out of her dark blue eyes."Sometimes," she said, "young men say 'très chic.' It depend on when and how one says it.""Are there times when it is all right for me to say it?" he inquired."Yes, I think so.... How are your mules today?""The same," he said, "—ready to bite or kick or eat their heads off. The Remount took two hundred this morning.""I saw them pass," said the girl. "I thought perhaps you also might be departing.""Without coming to say good-bye—toyou!" he stammered."Oh, conventions must be disregarded in time of war," she returned carelessly, continuing to shell peas. "I really thought I saw you riding away with the mules.""That man," said Burley, much hurt, "was a bow-legged driver of the Train-des-Equipages. I don't think he resembles me."As she made no comment and expressed no[pg 187]contrition for her mistake, he gazed about him at the sunny garden with a depressed expression. However, this changed presently to a bright and hopeful one."Vooz ate tray, tray belle, mademoiselle!" he asserted cheerfully."Monsieur!" Vexed perhaps as much at her own quick blush as his abrupt eulogy, she bit her lip and looked at him with an ominously level gaze. Then, suddenly, she smiled."Monsieur Burley, one doesnotso express one's self without reason, without apropos, without—without encouragement——"She blushed again, vividly. Under her wide straw hat her delicate, sensitive face and dark blue eyes were beautiful enough to inspire eulogy in any young man."Pardon," he said, confused by her reprimand and her loveliness. "I shall hereafter onlythinkyou are pretty, mademoiselle—mais je ne le dirais ploo.""That would be perhaps more—comme il faut, monsieur.""Ploo!" he repeated with emphasis. "Ploo jamais! Je vous jure——"[pg 188]"Merci; it is not perhaps necessary to swear quite so solemnly, monsieur."She raised her eyes from the pan, moving her small, sun-tanned hand through the heaps of green peas, filling her palm with them and idly letting them run through her slim fingers."L'amour," he said with an effort—"how funny it is—isn't it, mademoiselle?""I know nothing about it," she replied with decision, and rose with her pan of peas."Are you going, mademoiselle?""Yes.""Have I offended you?""No."He trailed after her down the garden path between rows of blue larkspurs and hollyhocks—just at her dainty heels, because the brick walk was too narrow for both of them."Ploo," he repeated appealingly.Over her shoulder she said with disdain:"It is not a topic for conversation among the young, monsieur—what you calll'amour." And she entered the kitchen, where he had not the effrontery to follow her.That evening, toward sunset, returning[pg 189]from the corral, he heard, high in the blue sky above him, her bell-music drifting; and involuntarily uncovering, he stood with bared head looking upward while the celestial melody lasted.And that evening, too, being the fête of Alincourt, a tiny neighbouring village across the river, the bell-mistress went up into the tower after dinner and played for an hour for the little neighbour hamlet across the river Lesse.All the people who remained in Sainte Lesse and in Alincourt brought out their chairs and their knitting in the calm, fragrant evening air and remained silent, sadly enraptured while the unseen player at her keyboard aloft in the belfry above set her carillon music adrift under the summer stars—golden harmonies that seemed born in the heavens from which they floated; clear, exquisitely sweet miracles of melody filling the world of darkness with magic messages of hope.Those widowed or childless among her listeners for miles around in the darkness wept quiet tears, less bitter and less hopeless for[pg 190]the divine promise of the sky music which filled the night as subtly as the scent of flowers saturates the dusk.Burley, listening down by the corral, leaned against a post, one powerful hand across his eyes, his cap clasped in the other, and in his heart the birth of things ineffable.For an hour the carillon played. Then old Bayard struck ten times. And Burley thought of the trenches and wondered whether the mellow thunder of the great bell was audible out there that night.[pg 191]CHAPTER XVIDJACKThere came a day when he did not see Maryette as he left for the corral in the morning.Her father, very stiff with rheumatism, sat in the sun outside the arched entrance to the inn."No," he said, "she is going to be gone all day today. She has set and wound the drum in the belfry so that the carillon shall play every hour while she is absent.""Where has she gone?" inquired Burley."To play the carillon at Nivelle.""Nivelle!" he exclaimed sharply."Oui, monsieur.The Mayor has asked for her. She is to play for an hour to entertain the wounded." He rested his withered cheek on his hand and looked out through the win[pg 192]dow at the sunshine with aged and tragic eyes. "It is very little to do for our wounded," he added aloud to himself.Burley had sent twenty mules to Nivelle the night before, and had heard some disquieting rumours concerning that town.Now he walked out past the dusky, arched passageway into the sunny street and continued northward under the trees to the barracks of the Gendarmerie."Bon jour l'ami Gargantua!" exclaimed the fat, jovial brigadier who had just emerged with boots shining, pipe-clay very apparent, and all rosy from a fresh shave."Bong joor, mon vieux copain!" replied Burley, preoccupied with some papers he was sorting. "Be good enough to look over my papers."The brigadier took them and examined them."Are theyen règle?" demanded Burley."Parfaitement, mon ami.""Will they take me as far as Nivelle?""Certainly. But your mules went forward last night with the Remount——"[pg 193]"I know. I wish to inspect them again before the veterinary sees them. Telephone to the corral for a saddle mule."The brigadier went inside to telephone and Burley started for the corral at the same time.His cream-coloured, wall-eyed mule was saddled and waiting when he arrived; he stuffed his papers into the breast of his tunic and climbed into the saddle."Allongs!" he exclaimed. "Hoop!"Half way to Nivelle, on an overgrown, bushy, circuitous path which was the only road open between Nivelle and Sainte Lesse, he overtook Maryette, driving her donkey and ancient market cart."Carillonnette!" he called out joyously. "Maryette! C'est je!"The girl, astonished, turned her head, and he spurred forward on his wall-eyed mount, evincing cordial symptoms of pleasure in the encounter."Wee, wee!" he cried. "Je voolay veneer avec voo!" And ere the girl could protest,[pg 194]he had dismounted, turning the wall-eyed one's nose southward, and had delivered a resounding whack upon the rump of that temperamental animal."Allez! Go home! Beat it!" he cried.The mule lost no time but headed for the distant corral at a canter; and Burley, grinning like a great, splendid, intelligent dog who has just done something to be proud of, stepped into the market cart and seated himself beside Maryette."Who told you where I am going?" she asked, scarcely knowing whether to laugh or let loose her indignation."Your father, Carillonnette.""Why did you follow me?""I had nothing else to do——""Is that the reason?""I like to be with you——""Really, monsieur! And you think it was not necessary to consult my wishes?""Don't you like to be with me?" he asked, so naïvely that the girl blushed and bit her lip and shook the reins without replying.They jogged on through the disused by[pg 195]way, the filbert bushes brushing axle and traces; but presently the little donkey relapsed into a walk again, and the girl, who had counted on that procedure when she started from Sainte Lesse, did not urge him."Also," she said in a low voice, "I have been wondering who permits you to address me as Carillonnette. Also as Maryette. You have been, heretofore, quite correct in assuming that mademoiselle is the proper form of address.""I was so glad to see you," he said, so simply that she flushed again and offered no further comment.For a long while she let him do the talking, which was perfectly agreeable to him. He talked on every subject he could think of, frankly practicing idioms on her, pleased with his own fluency and his progress in French.After a while she said, looking around at him with a curiosity quite friendly:"Tell me, Monsieur Burley,whydid you desire to come with me today?"He started to reply, but checked himself, looking into the dark blue and engaging eyes.[pg 196]After a moment the engaging eyes became brilliantly serious."Tell me," she repeated. "Is it because there were some rumours last evening concerning Nivelle?""Wee!""Oh," she nodded, thoughtfully.After driving for a little while in silence she looked around at him with an expression on her face which altered it exquisitely."Thank you, my friend," she murmured.... "And if you wish to call me Carillonnette—do so.""I do want to. And my name's Jack.... If you don't mind."Her eyes were fixed on her donkey's ears."Djack," she repeated, musingly. "Jacques—Djack—it's the same, isn't it—Djack?"He turned red and she laughed at him, no longer afraid."Listen, my friend," she said, "it istrès beau—what have you done.""Vooz êtes tray belle——""Non!Please stop! It is not a question of me——"[pg 197]"Vooz êtes tray chick——""Stop, Djack! That is not good manners! No! I was merely saying that—you have done something very nice. Which is quite true. You heard rumours that Nivelle had become unsafe. People whispered last evening—something about the danger of a salient being cut at its base.... I heard the gossip in the street. Was that why you came after me?""Wee.""Thank you, Djack."She leaned a trifle forward in the cart, her dimpled elbows on her knees, the reins sagging.Blue and rosy jays flew up before them, fluttering away through the thickets; a bullfinch whistled sweetly from a thorn bush, watching them pass under him, unafraid."You see," she said, half to herself, "Ihadto come. Who could refuse our wounded? There is no bell-master in our department; and only one bell-mistress.... To find anyone else to play the Nivelle carillon one would have to pierce the barbarians' lines and search[pg 198]the ruins of Flanders for aBeiaardier—aKlokkenist, as they call a carillonneur in the low countries.... But the Mayor asked it, and our wounded are waiting. You understand,mon amiDjack, I had to come."He nodded.She added, naïvely:"God watches over our trenches. We shall be quite safe in Nivelle."A dull boom shook the sunlit air. Even in the cart they could feel the vibration.An hour later, everywhere ahead of them, a vast, confused thundering was steadily increasing, deepening with every ominous reverberation.Where two sandy wood roads crossed, a mounted gendarme halted them and examined their papers."My poor child," he said to the girl, shaking his head, "the wounded at Nivelle were taken away during the night. They are fighting there now in the streets.""In Nivelle streets!" faltered the girl."Oui, mademoiselle.Of the carillon little remains. The Boches have been shelling it[pg 199]since daylight. Turn again. And it is better that you turn quickly, because it is not known to us what is going on in that wooded district over there. For if they get a foothold in Nivelle on this drive they might cross this road before evening."The girl sat grief-stricken and silent in the cart, staring at the woods ahead where the road ran through taller saplings and where, here and there, mature trees towered.All around them now the increasing thunder rolled and echoed and shook the ground under them. Half a dozen gendarmes came up at a gallop. Their officer drew bridle, seized the donkey's head and turned animal and cart southward."Go back," he said briefly, recognizing Burley and returning his salute. "You may have to take your mules out of Sainte Lesse!" he added, as he wheeled his horse. "We are getting into trouble out here,nom de Dieu!"Maryette's head hung as the donkey jogged along, trotting willingly because his nose was now pointed homeward.The girl drove with loose and careless rein[pg 200]and in silence; and beside her sat Burley, his troubled gaze always reverting to the despondent form beside him."Too bad, little girl," he said. "But another time our wounded shall listen to your carillon.""Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France—the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack—a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one's gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there—through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of God!—so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land——""Maryette—I am so sorry for you——""Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!""Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette——""No—my heart is broken——""Vooz ates tray, tray belle——"[pg 201]The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now—too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart.A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers:"Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us. That is not regulation in England—that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?"There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling."Answer, do you hear? What are you?""American.""Pig-dog!" shouted the gaunt officer. "So you are one of those Yankee muleteers in[pg 202]your uniform, and armed! It is sufficient that you are American. If it had not been for America this war would be ended! But it is not enough, apparently, that you come here with munitions and food, that you insult us at sea, that you lie about us and slander us and send your shells and cartridges to England to slay our people! No! Also you must come to insult us in your clown's uniform and with your pistol—" The man began to choke with fury, unable to continue, except by gesture.But the jerky gestures were terribly significant: soldiers were already pushing Burley across the road toward a great oak tree; six men fell out and lined up."M-my Government—" stammered the young fellow—but was given no opportunity to speak. Very white, the chill sweat standing on his forehead and under his eyes, he stood against the oak, lips compressed, grey eyes watching what was happening to him.Suddenly he understood it was all over."Djack!"He turned his gaze toward Maryette, where[pg 203]she struggled toward him, held by two soldiers."Maryette—Carillonnette—" His voice suddenly became steady, perfectly clear. "Je vous aime, Carillonnette.""Oh, Djack! Djack!" she cried in terror.He heard the orders; was aware of the levelled rifles; but his reckless greyish eyes were now fixed on her, and he began to laugh almost mischievously."Vooz êtes tray belle," he said, "—tray, tray chick——""Djack!"But the clang of the volley precluded any response from him except the half tender, half reckless smile that remained on his youthful face where he lay looking up at the sky with pleasant, sightless eyes, and a sunbeam touching the metal mule on his blood-wet collar.[pg 204]CHAPTER XVIIFRIENDSHIPShe tried once more to lift the big, warm, flexible body, exerting all her slender strength. It was useless. It was like attempting to lift the earth. The weight of the body frightened her.Again she sank down among the ferns under the great oak tree; once more she took his blood-smeared head on her lap, smoothing the bright, wet hair; and her tears fell slowly upon his upturned face."My friend," she stammered, "—my kind, droll friend.... The first friend I ever had——"The gun thunder beyond Nivelle had ceased; an intense stillness reigned in the forest; only a leaf moved here and there on the aspens.A few forest flies whirled about her, but[pg 205]as yet no ominous green flies came—none of those jewelled harbingers of death which appear with horrible promptness and as though by magic from nowhere when anything dies in the open world.Her donkey, still attached to the little gaily painted market cart, had wandered on up the sandy lane, feeding at random along the fern-bordered thickets which walled in the Nivelle byroad on either side.Presently her ear caught a slight sound; something stirred somewhere in the woods behind her. After an interval of terrible stillness there came a distant crashing of footsteps among dead leaves and underbrush.Horror of the Hun still possessed her; the victim of Prussian ferocity still lay across her knees. She dared not take the chance that friendly ears might hear her call for aid—dared not raise her voice in appeal lest she awaken something monstrous, unclean, inconceivable—the unseen thing which she could hear at intervals prowling there among dead leaves in the demi-light of the woods.Suddenly her heart leaped with fright; a[pg 206]man stepped cautiously out of the woods into the road; another, dressed in leather, with dry blood caked on his face, followed.The first comer, a French gendarme, had already caught sight of the donkey and market cart; had turned around instinctively to look for their owner. Now he discovered her seated there among the ferns under the oak tree."In the name of God," he growled, "what's that child doing there!"The airman in leather followed him across the road to the oak; the girl looked up at them out of dark, tear-marred eyes that seemed dazed."Well, little one!" rumbled the big, red-faced gendarme. "What's your name?—you who sit here all alone at the wood's edge with a dead man across your knees?"She made an effort to find her voice—to control it."I am Maryette Courtray, bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse," she answered, trembling."And—this young man?""They shot him—the Prussians, monsieur."[pg 207]"My poor child! Was he your lover, then?"Her tear-filled eyes widened:"Oh, no," she said naïvely; "it is sadder than that. He was my friend."The big gendarme scratched his chin; then, with an odd glance at the young airman who stood beside him:"To lose a friend is indeed sadder than to lose a lover. What was your friend's name, little one?"She pressed her hand to her forehead in an effort to search among her partly paralyzed thoughts:"Djack.... That is his name.... He was the first real friend I ever had."The airman said:"He is one of my countrymen—an American muleteer, Jack Burley—in charge at Sainte Lesse."At the sound of the young man's name pronounced in English the girl began to cry. The big gendarme bent over and patted her cheek."Allons," he growled; "courage! little mistress of the bells! Let us place your friend[pg 208]in your pretty market cart and leave this accursed place, in God's name!"He straightened up and looked over his shoulder."For the Boches are in Nivelle woods," he added, with an oath, "and we ought to be on our way to Sainte Lesse, if we are to arrive there at all.Allons, comrade, take him by the head!"So the wounded airman bent over and took the body by the shoulders; the gendarme lifted the feet; the little bell-mistress followed, holding to one of the sagging arms, as though fearing that these strangers might take away from her this dead man who had been so much more to her than a mere lover.When they laid him in the market cart she released his sleeve with a sob. Still crying, she climbed to the seat of the cart and gathered up the reins. Behind her, flat on the floor of the cart, the airman and the gendarme had seated themselves, with the young man's body between them. They were opening his tunic and shirt now and were whispering to[pg 209]gether, and wiping away blood from the naked shoulders and chest."He's still warm, but there's no pulse," whispered the airman. "He's dead enough, I guess, but I'd rather hear a surgeon say so."The gendarme rose, stepped across to the seat, took the reins gently from the girl."Weep peacefully, little one," he said; "it does one good. Tears are the tisane which strengthens the soul.""Ye-es.... But I am remembering that—that I was not very k-kind to him," she sobbed. "It hurts—here—" She pressed a slim hand over her breast."Allons!Friends quarrel. God understands. Thy friend back there—he also understands now.""Oh, I hope he does!... He spoke to me so tenderly—yet so gaily. He was even laughing at me when they shot him. He was so kind—and droll—" She sobbed anew, clasping her hands and pressing them against her quivering mouth to check her grief."Was it an execution, then?" demanded the gendarme in his growling voice.[pg 210]"They said he must be a franc-tireur to wear such a uniform——""Ah, the scoundrels! Ah, the assassins! And so they murdered him there under the tree?""Ah, God! Yes! I seem to see him standing there now—his grey, kind eyes—and no thought of fear—just a droll smile—the way he had with me—" whispered the girl, "the way—hisway—with me——""Child," said the gendarme, pityingly, "itwaslove!"But she shook her head, surprised, the tears still running down her tanned cheeks:"Monsieur, it was more serious than love; it was friendship."[pg 211]CHAPTER XVIIITHE AVIATORWhere the Fontanes highroad crosses the byroad to Sainte Lesse they were halted by a dusty column moving rapidly west—four hundred American mules convoyed by gendarmerie and remount troopers.The sweating riders, passing at a canter, shouted from their saddles to the big gendarme in the market cart that neither Nivelle nor Sainte Lesse were to be defended at present, and that all stragglers were being directed to Fontanes and Le Marronnier. Mules and drivers defiled at a swinging trot, enveloped in torrents of white dust; behind them rode a peloton of the remount, lashing recalcitrant animals forward; and in the rear of these rolled automobile ambulances, red crosses aglow in the rays of the setting sun.[pg 212]The driver of the last ambulance seemed to be ill; his head lay on the shoulder of a Sister of Charity who had taken the steering wheel.The gendarme beside Maryette signalled her to stop; then he got out of the market cart and, lifting the body of the American muleteer in his powerful arms, strode across the road. The airman leaped from the market cart and followed him.Between them they drew out a stretcher, laid the muleteer on it, and shoved it back into the vehicle.There was a brief consultation, then they both came back to Maryette, who, rigid in her seat and very pale, sat watching the procedure in silence.The gendarme said:"I go to Fontanes. There's a dressing station on the road. It appears that your young man's heart hasn't quite stopped yet——"The girl rose excitedly to her feet, but the gendarme gently forced her back into her seat and laid the reins in her hands. To the airman he growled:[pg 213]"I did not tell this poor child to hope; I merely informed her that her friend yonder is still breathing. But he's as full of holes as a pepper pot!" He frowned at Maryette: "Allons!My comrade here goes to Sainte Lesse. Drive him there now, in God's name, before the Uhlans come clattering on your heels!"He turned, strode away to the ambulance once more, climbed in, and placed one big arm around the sick driver's shoulder, drawing the man's head down against his breast."Bonne chance!" he called back to the airman, who had now seated himself beside Maryette. "Explain to our little bell-mistress that we're taking her friend to a place where they fool Death every day—where to cheat the grave is a flourishing business! Good-bye! Courage! En route, brave Sister of the World!"The Sister of Charity turned and smiled at Maryette, made her a friendly gesture, threw in the clutch, and, twisting the steering wheel with both sun-browned hands, guided the ma[pg 214]chine out onto the road and sped away swiftly after the cloud of receding dust."Drive on, mademoiselle," said the airman quietly.In his accent there was something poignantly familiar to Maryette, and she turned with a start and looked at him out of her dark blue, tear-marred eyes."Areyoualso American?" she asked."Gunner observer, American air squadron, mademoiselle.""An airman?""Yes. My machine was shot down in Nivelle woods an hour ago."After a silence, as they jogged along between the hazel thickets in the warm afternoon sunshine:"Were you acquainted with my friend?" she asked wistfully."With Jack Burley? A little. I knew him in Calais."The tears welled up into her eyes:"Could you tell me about him?... He was my first friend.... I did not understand him in the beginning, monsieur. Among children[pg 215]it is different; I had known boys—as one knows them at school. But a man, never—and, indeed, I had not thought I had grown up until—he came—Djack—to live at our inn.... The White Doe at Sainte Lesse, monsieur. My father keeps it.""I see," nodded the airman gravely."Yes—that is the way. He came—my first friend, Djack—with mules from America, monsieur—one thousand mules. And God knows Sainte Lesse had never seen the like! As for me—I thought I was a child still—until—do you understand, monsieur?""Yes, Maryette.""Yes, that is how I found I was grown up. He was a man, not a boy—that is how I found out. So he became my first friend. He was quite droll, and very big and kind—and timid—following me about—oh, it was quite droll for both of us, because at first I was afraid, but pretended not to be."She smiled, then suddenly her eyes filled with the tragedy again, and she began to whimper softly to herself, with a faint sound like a hovering pigeon.[pg 216]"Tell me about him," said the airman.She staunched her tears with the edge of her apron."It was that way with us," she managed to say. "I was enchanted and a little frightened—it being my first friendship. He was so big, so droll, so kind.... We were on our way to Nivelle this morning. I was to play the carillon—being mistress of the bells at Sainte Lesse—and there was nobody else to play the bells at Nivelle; and the wounded desired to hear the carillon.""Yes.""So Djack came after me—hearing rumours of Prussians in that direction. They were true—oh, God!—and the Prussians caught us there where you found us."She bowed her supple figure double on the seat, covering her face with her sun-browned hands.The airman drove on, whistling "La Brabançonne" under his breath, and deep in thought. From time to time he glanced at the curved figure beside him; but he said no more for a long time.[pg 217]Toward sunset they drove into the Sainte Lesse highway.He spoke abruptly, dryly:"Anybody can weep for a friend. But few avenge their dead."She looked up, bewildered.They drove under the old Sainte Lesse gate as he spoke. The sunlight lay pink across the walls and tipped the turret of the watch tower with fire.The town seemed very still; nothing was to be seen on the long main street except here and there a Spahi horsemanen vidette, and the clock-tower pigeons circling in their evening flight.The girl, Maryette, looked dumbly into the fading daylight when the cart stopped before her door. The airman took her gently by the arm, and that awakened her. As though stiffened by fatigue she rose and climbed to the sidewalk. He took her unresisting arm and led her through the tunnelled wall and into the White Doe Inn."Get me some supper," he said. "It will take your mind off your troubles."[pg 218]"Yes.""Bread, wine, and some meat, if you have any. I'll be back in a few moments."He left her at the inn door and went out into the street, whistling "La Brabançonne." A cavalryman directed him to the military telephone installed in the house of the notary across the street.His papers identified him; the operator gave him his connection; they switched him to the headquarters of his air squadron, where he made his report."Shot down?" came the sharp exclamation over the wire."Yes, sir, about eleven-thirty this morning on the north edge of Nivelle forest.""The machine?""Done for, sir. They have it.""You?""A scratch—nothing. I had to run.""What else have you to report?"The airman made his brief report in an unemotional voice. Ending it, he asked permission to volunteer for a special service. And for ten minutes the officer at the other[pg 219]end of the wire listened to a proposition which interested him intensely.When the airman finished, the officer said:"Wait till I relay this matter."For a quarter of an hour the airman waited. Finally the operator half turned on his camp chair and made a gesture for him to resume the receiver."If you choose to volunteer for such service," came the message, "it is approved. But understand—you are not ordered on such duty.""I understand. I volunteer.""Very well. Munitions go to you immediately by automobile. It is expected that the wind will blow from the west by morning. By morning, also, all reserves will arrive in the west salient. What is to be your signal?""The carillon from the Nivelle belfry.""What tune?""'La Brabançonne.' If not that, then the tocsin on the great bell, Clovis."In the tiny café the crippled innkeeper sat, his aged, wistful eyes watching three leather-[pg 220]clad airmen who had been whispering together around a table in the corner all the afternoon.They nodded in silence to the new arrival, and he joined them.Daylight faded in the room; the drum in the Sainte Lesse belfry, set to play before the hour sounded, began to turn aloft; the silvery notes of the carillon seemed to shower down from the sky, filling the twilight world with angelic melody. Then, in resonant beauty, the great bell, Bayard, measured the hour.The airman who had just arrived went to a sink, washed the caked blood from his face and tied it up with a first-aid bandage. Then he began to pace the café, his head bent in thought, his nervous hands clasped behind him.The room was dusky when he came back to the table where his three comrades still sat consulting in whispers. The old innkeeper had fallen asleep on his chair by the window. There was no light in the room except what came from stars.[pg 221]"Well," said one of the airmen in a carefully modulated voice, "what are you going to do, Jim?""Stay.""What's the idea?"The bandaged airman rested both hands on the stained table-top:"We quit Nivelle tonight, but our reserves are already coming up and we are to retake Nivelle tomorrow. You flew over the town this morning, didn't you?"All three said yes."You took photographs?""Certainly.""Then you know that our trenches pass under the bell-tower?""Yes.""Very well. The wind is north. When the Boches enter our trenches they'll try to gas our salient while the wind holds. But west winds are predicted after sunrise tomorrow. I'm going to get into the Nivelle belfry tonight with a sack of bombs. I'm going to try to explode their gas cylinders if I can. The[pg 222]tocsin is the signal for our people in the salient.""You're crazy!" remarked one of the airmen."No; I'll bluff it out. I'm to have a Boche uniform in a few moments.""Youarecrazy! You know what they'll do to you, don't you, Jim?"The bandaged airman laughed, but in his eyes there was an odd flicker like a tiny flame. He whistled "La Brabançonne" and glanced coolly about the room.One of the airmen said to another in a whisper:"There you are. Ever since they got his brother he's been figuring on landing a whole bunch of Huns at one clip. This is going to finish him, this business."Another said:"Don't try anything like that, Jim——""Sure, I'll try it," interrupted the bandaged airman pleasantly. "When are you fellows going?""Now."[pg 223]"All right. Take my report. Wait a moment——""For God's sake, Jim, act sensibly!"The bandaged airman laughed, fished out from his clothing somewhere a note book and pencil. One of the others turned an electric torch on the table; the bandaged man made a little sketch, wrote a few lines which the others studied."You can get that note to headquarters in half an hour, can't you, Ed?""Yes.""All right. I'll wait here for my answer.""You know what risk you run, Jim?" pleaded the youngest of the airmen."Oh, certainly. All right, then. You'd better be on your way."After they had left the room, the bandaged airman sat beside the table, thinking hard in the darkness.Presently from somewhere across the dusky river meadow the sudden roar of an airplane engine shattered the silence; then another whirring racket broke out; then another.He heard presently the loud rattle of his[pg 224]comrades' machines from high above him in the star-set sky; he heard the stertorous breathing of the old innkeeper; he heard again the crystalline bell-notes break out aloft, linger in linked harmonies, die away; he heard Bayard's mellow thunder proclaim the hour once more.There was a watch on his wrist, but it had been put out of business when his machine fell in Nivelle woods. Glancing at it mechanically he saw the phosphorescent dial glimmer faintly under shattered hands that remained fixed.An hour later Bayard shook the starlit silence ten times.As the last stroke boomed majestically through the darkness an automobile came racing into the long, unlighted street of Sainte Lesse and halted, panting, at the door of the White Doe Inn.The airman went out to the doorstep, saluted the staff captain who leaned forward from the tonneau and turned a flash on him. Then, satisfied, the officer lifted a bundle from[pg 225]the tonneau and handed it to the airman. A letter was pinned to the bundle.After the airman had read the letter twice, the staff captain leaned a trifle nearer."Do you think it can be done?" he demanded bluntly."Yes, sir.""Very well. Here are your munitions, too."He lifted from the tonneau a bomb-thrower's sack, heavy and full. The airman took it and saluted."It means the cross," said the staff captain dryly. And to the engineer chauffeur: "Let loose!"[pg 226]

Sticky Smith and Kid Glenn remained a week at Sainte Lesse, then left with the negroes for Calais to help bring up another cargo of mules, the arrival of which was daily expected.

A peloton of the Train-des-Equipages and three Remount troopers arrived at Sainte Lesse to take over the corral. John Burley remained to explain and interpret the American mule to these perplexed troopers.

Morning, noon, and night he went clanking down to the corral, his cartridge belt and holster swinging at his hip. But sometimes he had a little leisure.

Sainte Lesse knew him as a mighty eater and as a lusty drinker of good red wine; as a mighty and garrulous talker, too, he be[pg 183]came known, ready to accost anybody in the quiet and subdued old town and explode into French at the slightest encouragement.

But Burley had only women and children and old men on whom to practice his earnest and voluble French, for everybody else was at the front.

Children adored him—adored his big, silver spurs, his cartridge belt and pistol, the metal mule decorating his tunic collar, his six feet two of height, his quick smile, the even white teeth and grayish eyes of this American muleteer, who always had a stick of barley sugar to give them or an amazing trick to perform for them with a handkerchief or coin that vanished under their very noses at the magic snap of his finger.

Old men gossiped willingly with him; women liked him and their rare smiles in the war-sobered town of Sainte Lesse were often for him as he sauntered along the quiet street, clanking, swaggering, affable, ready for conversation with anybody, and always ready for the small, confident hands that unceremoni[pg 184]ously clasped his when he passed by where children played.

As for Maryette Courtray, called Carillonnette, she mounted the bell-tower once every hour, from six in the morning until nine o'clock in the evening, to play the passing of Time toward that eternity into which it is always and ceaselessly moving.

After nine o'clock Carillonnette set the drum and wound it; and through the dark hours of the night the bells played mechanically every hour for a few moments before Bayard struck.

Between these duties the girl managed the old inn, to which, since the war, nobody came any more—and with these occupations her life was full—sufficiently full, perhaps, without the advent of John Burley.

They met with enough frequency for her, if not for him. Their encounters took place between her duties aloft at the keyboard under the successive tiers of bells and his intervals of prowling among his mules.

Sometimes he found her sewing in the parlour—she could have gone to her own room,[pg 185]of course; sometimes he encountered her in the corridor, in the street, in the walled garden behind the inn, where with basket and pan she gathered vegetables in season.

There was a stone seat out there, built against the southern wall, and in the shadowed coolness of it she sometimes shelled peas.

During such an hour of liberty from the bell-tower he found the dark-eyed little mistress of the bells sorting various vegetables and singing under her breath to herself the carillon music of Josef Denyn.

"Tray chick, mademoiselle," he said, with a cheerful self-assertion, to hide the embarrassment which always assailed him when he encountered her.

"You know, Monsieur Burley, you should not say 'très chic' to me," she said, shaking her pretty head. "It sounds a little familiar and a little common."

"Oh," he exclaimed, very red. "I thought it was the thing to say."

She smiled, continuing to shell the peas, then, with her sensitive and slightly flushed[pg 186]face still lowered, she looked at him out of her dark blue eyes.

"Sometimes," she said, "young men say 'très chic.' It depend on when and how one says it."

"Are there times when it is all right for me to say it?" he inquired.

"Yes, I think so.... How are your mules today?"

"The same," he said, "—ready to bite or kick or eat their heads off. The Remount took two hundred this morning."

"I saw them pass," said the girl. "I thought perhaps you also might be departing."

"Without coming to say good-bye—toyou!" he stammered.

"Oh, conventions must be disregarded in time of war," she returned carelessly, continuing to shell peas. "I really thought I saw you riding away with the mules."

"That man," said Burley, much hurt, "was a bow-legged driver of the Train-des-Equipages. I don't think he resembles me."

As she made no comment and expressed no[pg 187]contrition for her mistake, he gazed about him at the sunny garden with a depressed expression. However, this changed presently to a bright and hopeful one.

"Vooz ate tray, tray belle, mademoiselle!" he asserted cheerfully.

"Monsieur!" Vexed perhaps as much at her own quick blush as his abrupt eulogy, she bit her lip and looked at him with an ominously level gaze. Then, suddenly, she smiled.

"Monsieur Burley, one doesnotso express one's self without reason, without apropos, without—without encouragement——"

She blushed again, vividly. Under her wide straw hat her delicate, sensitive face and dark blue eyes were beautiful enough to inspire eulogy in any young man.

"Pardon," he said, confused by her reprimand and her loveliness. "I shall hereafter onlythinkyou are pretty, mademoiselle—mais je ne le dirais ploo."

"That would be perhaps more—comme il faut, monsieur."

"Ploo!" he repeated with emphasis. "Ploo jamais! Je vous jure——"

"Merci; it is not perhaps necessary to swear quite so solemnly, monsieur."

She raised her eyes from the pan, moving her small, sun-tanned hand through the heaps of green peas, filling her palm with them and idly letting them run through her slim fingers.

"L'amour," he said with an effort—"how funny it is—isn't it, mademoiselle?"

"I know nothing about it," she replied with decision, and rose with her pan of peas.

"Are you going, mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

"Have I offended you?"

"No."

He trailed after her down the garden path between rows of blue larkspurs and hollyhocks—just at her dainty heels, because the brick walk was too narrow for both of them.

"Ploo," he repeated appealingly.

Over her shoulder she said with disdain:

"It is not a topic for conversation among the young, monsieur—what you calll'amour." And she entered the kitchen, where he had not the effrontery to follow her.

That evening, toward sunset, returning[pg 189]from the corral, he heard, high in the blue sky above him, her bell-music drifting; and involuntarily uncovering, he stood with bared head looking upward while the celestial melody lasted.

And that evening, too, being the fête of Alincourt, a tiny neighbouring village across the river, the bell-mistress went up into the tower after dinner and played for an hour for the little neighbour hamlet across the river Lesse.

All the people who remained in Sainte Lesse and in Alincourt brought out their chairs and their knitting in the calm, fragrant evening air and remained silent, sadly enraptured while the unseen player at her keyboard aloft in the belfry above set her carillon music adrift under the summer stars—golden harmonies that seemed born in the heavens from which they floated; clear, exquisitely sweet miracles of melody filling the world of darkness with magic messages of hope.

Those widowed or childless among her listeners for miles around in the darkness wept quiet tears, less bitter and less hopeless for[pg 190]the divine promise of the sky music which filled the night as subtly as the scent of flowers saturates the dusk.

Burley, listening down by the corral, leaned against a post, one powerful hand across his eyes, his cap clasped in the other, and in his heart the birth of things ineffable.

For an hour the carillon played. Then old Bayard struck ten times. And Burley thought of the trenches and wondered whether the mellow thunder of the great bell was audible out there that night.

CHAPTER XVIDJACKThere came a day when he did not see Maryette as he left for the corral in the morning.Her father, very stiff with rheumatism, sat in the sun outside the arched entrance to the inn."No," he said, "she is going to be gone all day today. She has set and wound the drum in the belfry so that the carillon shall play every hour while she is absent.""Where has she gone?" inquired Burley."To play the carillon at Nivelle.""Nivelle!" he exclaimed sharply."Oui, monsieur.The Mayor has asked for her. She is to play for an hour to entertain the wounded." He rested his withered cheek on his hand and looked out through the win[pg 192]dow at the sunshine with aged and tragic eyes. "It is very little to do for our wounded," he added aloud to himself.Burley had sent twenty mules to Nivelle the night before, and had heard some disquieting rumours concerning that town.Now he walked out past the dusky, arched passageway into the sunny street and continued northward under the trees to the barracks of the Gendarmerie."Bon jour l'ami Gargantua!" exclaimed the fat, jovial brigadier who had just emerged with boots shining, pipe-clay very apparent, and all rosy from a fresh shave."Bong joor, mon vieux copain!" replied Burley, preoccupied with some papers he was sorting. "Be good enough to look over my papers."The brigadier took them and examined them."Are theyen règle?" demanded Burley."Parfaitement, mon ami.""Will they take me as far as Nivelle?""Certainly. But your mules went forward last night with the Remount——"[pg 193]"I know. I wish to inspect them again before the veterinary sees them. Telephone to the corral for a saddle mule."The brigadier went inside to telephone and Burley started for the corral at the same time.His cream-coloured, wall-eyed mule was saddled and waiting when he arrived; he stuffed his papers into the breast of his tunic and climbed into the saddle."Allongs!" he exclaimed. "Hoop!"Half way to Nivelle, on an overgrown, bushy, circuitous path which was the only road open between Nivelle and Sainte Lesse, he overtook Maryette, driving her donkey and ancient market cart."Carillonnette!" he called out joyously. "Maryette! C'est je!"The girl, astonished, turned her head, and he spurred forward on his wall-eyed mount, evincing cordial symptoms of pleasure in the encounter."Wee, wee!" he cried. "Je voolay veneer avec voo!" And ere the girl could protest,[pg 194]he had dismounted, turning the wall-eyed one's nose southward, and had delivered a resounding whack upon the rump of that temperamental animal."Allez! Go home! Beat it!" he cried.The mule lost no time but headed for the distant corral at a canter; and Burley, grinning like a great, splendid, intelligent dog who has just done something to be proud of, stepped into the market cart and seated himself beside Maryette."Who told you where I am going?" she asked, scarcely knowing whether to laugh or let loose her indignation."Your father, Carillonnette.""Why did you follow me?""I had nothing else to do——""Is that the reason?""I like to be with you——""Really, monsieur! And you think it was not necessary to consult my wishes?""Don't you like to be with me?" he asked, so naïvely that the girl blushed and bit her lip and shook the reins without replying.They jogged on through the disused by[pg 195]way, the filbert bushes brushing axle and traces; but presently the little donkey relapsed into a walk again, and the girl, who had counted on that procedure when she started from Sainte Lesse, did not urge him."Also," she said in a low voice, "I have been wondering who permits you to address me as Carillonnette. Also as Maryette. You have been, heretofore, quite correct in assuming that mademoiselle is the proper form of address.""I was so glad to see you," he said, so simply that she flushed again and offered no further comment.For a long while she let him do the talking, which was perfectly agreeable to him. He talked on every subject he could think of, frankly practicing idioms on her, pleased with his own fluency and his progress in French.After a while she said, looking around at him with a curiosity quite friendly:"Tell me, Monsieur Burley,whydid you desire to come with me today?"He started to reply, but checked himself, looking into the dark blue and engaging eyes.[pg 196]After a moment the engaging eyes became brilliantly serious."Tell me," she repeated. "Is it because there were some rumours last evening concerning Nivelle?""Wee!""Oh," she nodded, thoughtfully.After driving for a little while in silence she looked around at him with an expression on her face which altered it exquisitely."Thank you, my friend," she murmured.... "And if you wish to call me Carillonnette—do so.""I do want to. And my name's Jack.... If you don't mind."Her eyes were fixed on her donkey's ears."Djack," she repeated, musingly. "Jacques—Djack—it's the same, isn't it—Djack?"He turned red and she laughed at him, no longer afraid."Listen, my friend," she said, "it istrès beau—what have you done.""Vooz êtes tray belle——""Non!Please stop! It is not a question of me——"[pg 197]"Vooz êtes tray chick——""Stop, Djack! That is not good manners! No! I was merely saying that—you have done something very nice. Which is quite true. You heard rumours that Nivelle had become unsafe. People whispered last evening—something about the danger of a salient being cut at its base.... I heard the gossip in the street. Was that why you came after me?""Wee.""Thank you, Djack."She leaned a trifle forward in the cart, her dimpled elbows on her knees, the reins sagging.Blue and rosy jays flew up before them, fluttering away through the thickets; a bullfinch whistled sweetly from a thorn bush, watching them pass under him, unafraid."You see," she said, half to herself, "Ihadto come. Who could refuse our wounded? There is no bell-master in our department; and only one bell-mistress.... To find anyone else to play the Nivelle carillon one would have to pierce the barbarians' lines and search[pg 198]the ruins of Flanders for aBeiaardier—aKlokkenist, as they call a carillonneur in the low countries.... But the Mayor asked it, and our wounded are waiting. You understand,mon amiDjack, I had to come."He nodded.She added, naïvely:"God watches over our trenches. We shall be quite safe in Nivelle."A dull boom shook the sunlit air. Even in the cart they could feel the vibration.An hour later, everywhere ahead of them, a vast, confused thundering was steadily increasing, deepening with every ominous reverberation.Where two sandy wood roads crossed, a mounted gendarme halted them and examined their papers."My poor child," he said to the girl, shaking his head, "the wounded at Nivelle were taken away during the night. They are fighting there now in the streets.""In Nivelle streets!" faltered the girl."Oui, mademoiselle.Of the carillon little remains. The Boches have been shelling it[pg 199]since daylight. Turn again. And it is better that you turn quickly, because it is not known to us what is going on in that wooded district over there. For if they get a foothold in Nivelle on this drive they might cross this road before evening."The girl sat grief-stricken and silent in the cart, staring at the woods ahead where the road ran through taller saplings and where, here and there, mature trees towered.All around them now the increasing thunder rolled and echoed and shook the ground under them. Half a dozen gendarmes came up at a gallop. Their officer drew bridle, seized the donkey's head and turned animal and cart southward."Go back," he said briefly, recognizing Burley and returning his salute. "You may have to take your mules out of Sainte Lesse!" he added, as he wheeled his horse. "We are getting into trouble out here,nom de Dieu!"Maryette's head hung as the donkey jogged along, trotting willingly because his nose was now pointed homeward.The girl drove with loose and careless rein[pg 200]and in silence; and beside her sat Burley, his troubled gaze always reverting to the despondent form beside him."Too bad, little girl," he said. "But another time our wounded shall listen to your carillon.""Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France—the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack—a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one's gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there—through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of God!—so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land——""Maryette—I am so sorry for you——""Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!""Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette——""No—my heart is broken——""Vooz ates tray, tray belle——"[pg 201]The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now—too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart.A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers:"Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us. That is not regulation in England—that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?"There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling."Answer, do you hear? What are you?""American.""Pig-dog!" shouted the gaunt officer. "So you are one of those Yankee muleteers in[pg 202]your uniform, and armed! It is sufficient that you are American. If it had not been for America this war would be ended! But it is not enough, apparently, that you come here with munitions and food, that you insult us at sea, that you lie about us and slander us and send your shells and cartridges to England to slay our people! No! Also you must come to insult us in your clown's uniform and with your pistol—" The man began to choke with fury, unable to continue, except by gesture.But the jerky gestures were terribly significant: soldiers were already pushing Burley across the road toward a great oak tree; six men fell out and lined up."M-my Government—" stammered the young fellow—but was given no opportunity to speak. Very white, the chill sweat standing on his forehead and under his eyes, he stood against the oak, lips compressed, grey eyes watching what was happening to him.Suddenly he understood it was all over."Djack!"He turned his gaze toward Maryette, where[pg 203]she struggled toward him, held by two soldiers."Maryette—Carillonnette—" His voice suddenly became steady, perfectly clear. "Je vous aime, Carillonnette.""Oh, Djack! Djack!" she cried in terror.He heard the orders; was aware of the levelled rifles; but his reckless greyish eyes were now fixed on her, and he began to laugh almost mischievously."Vooz êtes tray belle," he said, "—tray, tray chick——""Djack!"But the clang of the volley precluded any response from him except the half tender, half reckless smile that remained on his youthful face where he lay looking up at the sky with pleasant, sightless eyes, and a sunbeam touching the metal mule on his blood-wet collar.

There came a day when he did not see Maryette as he left for the corral in the morning.

Her father, very stiff with rheumatism, sat in the sun outside the arched entrance to the inn.

"No," he said, "she is going to be gone all day today. She has set and wound the drum in the belfry so that the carillon shall play every hour while she is absent."

"Where has she gone?" inquired Burley.

"To play the carillon at Nivelle."

"Nivelle!" he exclaimed sharply.

"Oui, monsieur.The Mayor has asked for her. She is to play for an hour to entertain the wounded." He rested his withered cheek on his hand and looked out through the win[pg 192]dow at the sunshine with aged and tragic eyes. "It is very little to do for our wounded," he added aloud to himself.

Burley had sent twenty mules to Nivelle the night before, and had heard some disquieting rumours concerning that town.

Now he walked out past the dusky, arched passageway into the sunny street and continued northward under the trees to the barracks of the Gendarmerie.

"Bon jour l'ami Gargantua!" exclaimed the fat, jovial brigadier who had just emerged with boots shining, pipe-clay very apparent, and all rosy from a fresh shave.

"Bong joor, mon vieux copain!" replied Burley, preoccupied with some papers he was sorting. "Be good enough to look over my papers."

The brigadier took them and examined them.

"Are theyen règle?" demanded Burley.

"Parfaitement, mon ami."

"Will they take me as far as Nivelle?"

"Certainly. But your mules went forward last night with the Remount——"

"I know. I wish to inspect them again before the veterinary sees them. Telephone to the corral for a saddle mule."

The brigadier went inside to telephone and Burley started for the corral at the same time.

His cream-coloured, wall-eyed mule was saddled and waiting when he arrived; he stuffed his papers into the breast of his tunic and climbed into the saddle.

"Allongs!" he exclaimed. "Hoop!"

Half way to Nivelle, on an overgrown, bushy, circuitous path which was the only road open between Nivelle and Sainte Lesse, he overtook Maryette, driving her donkey and ancient market cart.

"Carillonnette!" he called out joyously. "Maryette! C'est je!"

The girl, astonished, turned her head, and he spurred forward on his wall-eyed mount, evincing cordial symptoms of pleasure in the encounter.

"Wee, wee!" he cried. "Je voolay veneer avec voo!" And ere the girl could protest,[pg 194]he had dismounted, turning the wall-eyed one's nose southward, and had delivered a resounding whack upon the rump of that temperamental animal.

"Allez! Go home! Beat it!" he cried.

The mule lost no time but headed for the distant corral at a canter; and Burley, grinning like a great, splendid, intelligent dog who has just done something to be proud of, stepped into the market cart and seated himself beside Maryette.

"Who told you where I am going?" she asked, scarcely knowing whether to laugh or let loose her indignation.

"Your father, Carillonnette."

"Why did you follow me?"

"I had nothing else to do——"

"Is that the reason?"

"I like to be with you——"

"Really, monsieur! And you think it was not necessary to consult my wishes?"

"Don't you like to be with me?" he asked, so naïvely that the girl blushed and bit her lip and shook the reins without replying.

They jogged on through the disused by[pg 195]way, the filbert bushes brushing axle and traces; but presently the little donkey relapsed into a walk again, and the girl, who had counted on that procedure when she started from Sainte Lesse, did not urge him.

"Also," she said in a low voice, "I have been wondering who permits you to address me as Carillonnette. Also as Maryette. You have been, heretofore, quite correct in assuming that mademoiselle is the proper form of address."

"I was so glad to see you," he said, so simply that she flushed again and offered no further comment.

For a long while she let him do the talking, which was perfectly agreeable to him. He talked on every subject he could think of, frankly practicing idioms on her, pleased with his own fluency and his progress in French.

After a while she said, looking around at him with a curiosity quite friendly:

"Tell me, Monsieur Burley,whydid you desire to come with me today?"

He started to reply, but checked himself, looking into the dark blue and engaging eyes.[pg 196]After a moment the engaging eyes became brilliantly serious.

"Tell me," she repeated. "Is it because there were some rumours last evening concerning Nivelle?"

"Wee!"

"Oh," she nodded, thoughtfully.

After driving for a little while in silence she looked around at him with an expression on her face which altered it exquisitely.

"Thank you, my friend," she murmured.... "And if you wish to call me Carillonnette—do so."

"I do want to. And my name's Jack.... If you don't mind."

Her eyes were fixed on her donkey's ears.

"Djack," she repeated, musingly. "Jacques—Djack—it's the same, isn't it—Djack?"

He turned red and she laughed at him, no longer afraid.

"Listen, my friend," she said, "it istrès beau—what have you done."

"Vooz êtes tray belle——"

"Non!Please stop! It is not a question of me——"

"Vooz êtes tray chick——"

"Stop, Djack! That is not good manners! No! I was merely saying that—you have done something very nice. Which is quite true. You heard rumours that Nivelle had become unsafe. People whispered last evening—something about the danger of a salient being cut at its base.... I heard the gossip in the street. Was that why you came after me?"

"Wee."

"Thank you, Djack."

She leaned a trifle forward in the cart, her dimpled elbows on her knees, the reins sagging.

Blue and rosy jays flew up before them, fluttering away through the thickets; a bullfinch whistled sweetly from a thorn bush, watching them pass under him, unafraid.

"You see," she said, half to herself, "Ihadto come. Who could refuse our wounded? There is no bell-master in our department; and only one bell-mistress.... To find anyone else to play the Nivelle carillon one would have to pierce the barbarians' lines and search[pg 198]the ruins of Flanders for aBeiaardier—aKlokkenist, as they call a carillonneur in the low countries.... But the Mayor asked it, and our wounded are waiting. You understand,mon amiDjack, I had to come."

He nodded.

She added, naïvely:

"God watches over our trenches. We shall be quite safe in Nivelle."

A dull boom shook the sunlit air. Even in the cart they could feel the vibration.

An hour later, everywhere ahead of them, a vast, confused thundering was steadily increasing, deepening with every ominous reverberation.

Where two sandy wood roads crossed, a mounted gendarme halted them and examined their papers.

"My poor child," he said to the girl, shaking his head, "the wounded at Nivelle were taken away during the night. They are fighting there now in the streets."

"In Nivelle streets!" faltered the girl.

"Oui, mademoiselle.Of the carillon little remains. The Boches have been shelling it[pg 199]since daylight. Turn again. And it is better that you turn quickly, because it is not known to us what is going on in that wooded district over there. For if they get a foothold in Nivelle on this drive they might cross this road before evening."

The girl sat grief-stricken and silent in the cart, staring at the woods ahead where the road ran through taller saplings and where, here and there, mature trees towered.

All around them now the increasing thunder rolled and echoed and shook the ground under them. Half a dozen gendarmes came up at a gallop. Their officer drew bridle, seized the donkey's head and turned animal and cart southward.

"Go back," he said briefly, recognizing Burley and returning his salute. "You may have to take your mules out of Sainte Lesse!" he added, as he wheeled his horse. "We are getting into trouble out here,nom de Dieu!"

Maryette's head hung as the donkey jogged along, trotting willingly because his nose was now pointed homeward.

The girl drove with loose and careless rein[pg 200]and in silence; and beside her sat Burley, his troubled gaze always reverting to the despondent form beside him.

"Too bad, little girl," he said. "But another time our wounded shall listen to your carillon."

"Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France—the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack—a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one's gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there—through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of God!—so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land——"

"Maryette—I am so sorry for you——"

"Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!"

"Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette——"

"No—my heart is broken——"

"Vooz ates tray, tray belle——"

The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now—too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart.

A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers:

"Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us. That is not regulation in England—that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?"

There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling.

"Answer, do you hear? What are you?"

"American."

"Pig-dog!" shouted the gaunt officer. "So you are one of those Yankee muleteers in[pg 202]your uniform, and armed! It is sufficient that you are American. If it had not been for America this war would be ended! But it is not enough, apparently, that you come here with munitions and food, that you insult us at sea, that you lie about us and slander us and send your shells and cartridges to England to slay our people! No! Also you must come to insult us in your clown's uniform and with your pistol—" The man began to choke with fury, unable to continue, except by gesture.

But the jerky gestures were terribly significant: soldiers were already pushing Burley across the road toward a great oak tree; six men fell out and lined up.

"M-my Government—" stammered the young fellow—but was given no opportunity to speak. Very white, the chill sweat standing on his forehead and under his eyes, he stood against the oak, lips compressed, grey eyes watching what was happening to him.

Suddenly he understood it was all over.

"Djack!"

He turned his gaze toward Maryette, where[pg 203]she struggled toward him, held by two soldiers.

"Maryette—Carillonnette—" His voice suddenly became steady, perfectly clear. "Je vous aime, Carillonnette."

"Oh, Djack! Djack!" she cried in terror.

He heard the orders; was aware of the levelled rifles; but his reckless greyish eyes were now fixed on her, and he began to laugh almost mischievously.

"Vooz êtes tray belle," he said, "—tray, tray chick——"

"Djack!"

But the clang of the volley precluded any response from him except the half tender, half reckless smile that remained on his youthful face where he lay looking up at the sky with pleasant, sightless eyes, and a sunbeam touching the metal mule on his blood-wet collar.

CHAPTER XVIIFRIENDSHIPShe tried once more to lift the big, warm, flexible body, exerting all her slender strength. It was useless. It was like attempting to lift the earth. The weight of the body frightened her.Again she sank down among the ferns under the great oak tree; once more she took his blood-smeared head on her lap, smoothing the bright, wet hair; and her tears fell slowly upon his upturned face."My friend," she stammered, "—my kind, droll friend.... The first friend I ever had——"The gun thunder beyond Nivelle had ceased; an intense stillness reigned in the forest; only a leaf moved here and there on the aspens.A few forest flies whirled about her, but[pg 205]as yet no ominous green flies came—none of those jewelled harbingers of death which appear with horrible promptness and as though by magic from nowhere when anything dies in the open world.Her donkey, still attached to the little gaily painted market cart, had wandered on up the sandy lane, feeding at random along the fern-bordered thickets which walled in the Nivelle byroad on either side.Presently her ear caught a slight sound; something stirred somewhere in the woods behind her. After an interval of terrible stillness there came a distant crashing of footsteps among dead leaves and underbrush.Horror of the Hun still possessed her; the victim of Prussian ferocity still lay across her knees. She dared not take the chance that friendly ears might hear her call for aid—dared not raise her voice in appeal lest she awaken something monstrous, unclean, inconceivable—the unseen thing which she could hear at intervals prowling there among dead leaves in the demi-light of the woods.Suddenly her heart leaped with fright; a[pg 206]man stepped cautiously out of the woods into the road; another, dressed in leather, with dry blood caked on his face, followed.The first comer, a French gendarme, had already caught sight of the donkey and market cart; had turned around instinctively to look for their owner. Now he discovered her seated there among the ferns under the oak tree."In the name of God," he growled, "what's that child doing there!"The airman in leather followed him across the road to the oak; the girl looked up at them out of dark, tear-marred eyes that seemed dazed."Well, little one!" rumbled the big, red-faced gendarme. "What's your name?—you who sit here all alone at the wood's edge with a dead man across your knees?"She made an effort to find her voice—to control it."I am Maryette Courtray, bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse," she answered, trembling."And—this young man?""They shot him—the Prussians, monsieur."[pg 207]"My poor child! Was he your lover, then?"Her tear-filled eyes widened:"Oh, no," she said naïvely; "it is sadder than that. He was my friend."The big gendarme scratched his chin; then, with an odd glance at the young airman who stood beside him:"To lose a friend is indeed sadder than to lose a lover. What was your friend's name, little one?"She pressed her hand to her forehead in an effort to search among her partly paralyzed thoughts:"Djack.... That is his name.... He was the first real friend I ever had."The airman said:"He is one of my countrymen—an American muleteer, Jack Burley—in charge at Sainte Lesse."At the sound of the young man's name pronounced in English the girl began to cry. The big gendarme bent over and patted her cheek."Allons," he growled; "courage! little mistress of the bells! Let us place your friend[pg 208]in your pretty market cart and leave this accursed place, in God's name!"He straightened up and looked over his shoulder."For the Boches are in Nivelle woods," he added, with an oath, "and we ought to be on our way to Sainte Lesse, if we are to arrive there at all.Allons, comrade, take him by the head!"So the wounded airman bent over and took the body by the shoulders; the gendarme lifted the feet; the little bell-mistress followed, holding to one of the sagging arms, as though fearing that these strangers might take away from her this dead man who had been so much more to her than a mere lover.When they laid him in the market cart she released his sleeve with a sob. Still crying, she climbed to the seat of the cart and gathered up the reins. Behind her, flat on the floor of the cart, the airman and the gendarme had seated themselves, with the young man's body between them. They were opening his tunic and shirt now and were whispering to[pg 209]gether, and wiping away blood from the naked shoulders and chest."He's still warm, but there's no pulse," whispered the airman. "He's dead enough, I guess, but I'd rather hear a surgeon say so."The gendarme rose, stepped across to the seat, took the reins gently from the girl."Weep peacefully, little one," he said; "it does one good. Tears are the tisane which strengthens the soul.""Ye-es.... But I am remembering that—that I was not very k-kind to him," she sobbed. "It hurts—here—" She pressed a slim hand over her breast."Allons!Friends quarrel. God understands. Thy friend back there—he also understands now.""Oh, I hope he does!... He spoke to me so tenderly—yet so gaily. He was even laughing at me when they shot him. He was so kind—and droll—" She sobbed anew, clasping her hands and pressing them against her quivering mouth to check her grief."Was it an execution, then?" demanded the gendarme in his growling voice.[pg 210]"They said he must be a franc-tireur to wear such a uniform——""Ah, the scoundrels! Ah, the assassins! And so they murdered him there under the tree?""Ah, God! Yes! I seem to see him standing there now—his grey, kind eyes—and no thought of fear—just a droll smile—the way he had with me—" whispered the girl, "the way—hisway—with me——""Child," said the gendarme, pityingly, "itwaslove!"But she shook her head, surprised, the tears still running down her tanned cheeks:"Monsieur, it was more serious than love; it was friendship."

She tried once more to lift the big, warm, flexible body, exerting all her slender strength. It was useless. It was like attempting to lift the earth. The weight of the body frightened her.

Again she sank down among the ferns under the great oak tree; once more she took his blood-smeared head on her lap, smoothing the bright, wet hair; and her tears fell slowly upon his upturned face.

"My friend," she stammered, "—my kind, droll friend.... The first friend I ever had——"

The gun thunder beyond Nivelle had ceased; an intense stillness reigned in the forest; only a leaf moved here and there on the aspens.

A few forest flies whirled about her, but[pg 205]as yet no ominous green flies came—none of those jewelled harbingers of death which appear with horrible promptness and as though by magic from nowhere when anything dies in the open world.

Her donkey, still attached to the little gaily painted market cart, had wandered on up the sandy lane, feeding at random along the fern-bordered thickets which walled in the Nivelle byroad on either side.

Presently her ear caught a slight sound; something stirred somewhere in the woods behind her. After an interval of terrible stillness there came a distant crashing of footsteps among dead leaves and underbrush.

Horror of the Hun still possessed her; the victim of Prussian ferocity still lay across her knees. She dared not take the chance that friendly ears might hear her call for aid—dared not raise her voice in appeal lest she awaken something monstrous, unclean, inconceivable—the unseen thing which she could hear at intervals prowling there among dead leaves in the demi-light of the woods.

Suddenly her heart leaped with fright; a[pg 206]man stepped cautiously out of the woods into the road; another, dressed in leather, with dry blood caked on his face, followed.

The first comer, a French gendarme, had already caught sight of the donkey and market cart; had turned around instinctively to look for their owner. Now he discovered her seated there among the ferns under the oak tree.

"In the name of God," he growled, "what's that child doing there!"

The airman in leather followed him across the road to the oak; the girl looked up at them out of dark, tear-marred eyes that seemed dazed.

"Well, little one!" rumbled the big, red-faced gendarme. "What's your name?—you who sit here all alone at the wood's edge with a dead man across your knees?"

She made an effort to find her voice—to control it.

"I am Maryette Courtray, bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse," she answered, trembling.

"And—this young man?"

"They shot him—the Prussians, monsieur."[pg 207]

"My poor child! Was he your lover, then?"

Her tear-filled eyes widened:

"Oh, no," she said naïvely; "it is sadder than that. He was my friend."

The big gendarme scratched his chin; then, with an odd glance at the young airman who stood beside him:

"To lose a friend is indeed sadder than to lose a lover. What was your friend's name, little one?"

She pressed her hand to her forehead in an effort to search among her partly paralyzed thoughts:

"Djack.... That is his name.... He was the first real friend I ever had."

The airman said:

"He is one of my countrymen—an American muleteer, Jack Burley—in charge at Sainte Lesse."

At the sound of the young man's name pronounced in English the girl began to cry. The big gendarme bent over and patted her cheek.

"Allons," he growled; "courage! little mistress of the bells! Let us place your friend[pg 208]in your pretty market cart and leave this accursed place, in God's name!"

He straightened up and looked over his shoulder.

"For the Boches are in Nivelle woods," he added, with an oath, "and we ought to be on our way to Sainte Lesse, if we are to arrive there at all.Allons, comrade, take him by the head!"

So the wounded airman bent over and took the body by the shoulders; the gendarme lifted the feet; the little bell-mistress followed, holding to one of the sagging arms, as though fearing that these strangers might take away from her this dead man who had been so much more to her than a mere lover.

When they laid him in the market cart she released his sleeve with a sob. Still crying, she climbed to the seat of the cart and gathered up the reins. Behind her, flat on the floor of the cart, the airman and the gendarme had seated themselves, with the young man's body between them. They were opening his tunic and shirt now and were whispering to[pg 209]gether, and wiping away blood from the naked shoulders and chest.

"He's still warm, but there's no pulse," whispered the airman. "He's dead enough, I guess, but I'd rather hear a surgeon say so."

The gendarme rose, stepped across to the seat, took the reins gently from the girl.

"Weep peacefully, little one," he said; "it does one good. Tears are the tisane which strengthens the soul."

"Ye-es.... But I am remembering that—that I was not very k-kind to him," she sobbed. "It hurts—here—" She pressed a slim hand over her breast.

"Allons!Friends quarrel. God understands. Thy friend back there—he also understands now."

"Oh, I hope he does!... He spoke to me so tenderly—yet so gaily. He was even laughing at me when they shot him. He was so kind—and droll—" She sobbed anew, clasping her hands and pressing them against her quivering mouth to check her grief.

"Was it an execution, then?" demanded the gendarme in his growling voice.[pg 210]

"They said he must be a franc-tireur to wear such a uniform——"

"Ah, the scoundrels! Ah, the assassins! And so they murdered him there under the tree?"

"Ah, God! Yes! I seem to see him standing there now—his grey, kind eyes—and no thought of fear—just a droll smile—the way he had with me—" whispered the girl, "the way—hisway—with me——"

"Child," said the gendarme, pityingly, "itwaslove!"

But she shook her head, surprised, the tears still running down her tanned cheeks:

"Monsieur, it was more serious than love; it was friendship."

CHAPTER XVIIITHE AVIATORWhere the Fontanes highroad crosses the byroad to Sainte Lesse they were halted by a dusty column moving rapidly west—four hundred American mules convoyed by gendarmerie and remount troopers.The sweating riders, passing at a canter, shouted from their saddles to the big gendarme in the market cart that neither Nivelle nor Sainte Lesse were to be defended at present, and that all stragglers were being directed to Fontanes and Le Marronnier. Mules and drivers defiled at a swinging trot, enveloped in torrents of white dust; behind them rode a peloton of the remount, lashing recalcitrant animals forward; and in the rear of these rolled automobile ambulances, red crosses aglow in the rays of the setting sun.[pg 212]The driver of the last ambulance seemed to be ill; his head lay on the shoulder of a Sister of Charity who had taken the steering wheel.The gendarme beside Maryette signalled her to stop; then he got out of the market cart and, lifting the body of the American muleteer in his powerful arms, strode across the road. The airman leaped from the market cart and followed him.Between them they drew out a stretcher, laid the muleteer on it, and shoved it back into the vehicle.There was a brief consultation, then they both came back to Maryette, who, rigid in her seat and very pale, sat watching the procedure in silence.The gendarme said:"I go to Fontanes. There's a dressing station on the road. It appears that your young man's heart hasn't quite stopped yet——"The girl rose excitedly to her feet, but the gendarme gently forced her back into her seat and laid the reins in her hands. To the airman he growled:[pg 213]"I did not tell this poor child to hope; I merely informed her that her friend yonder is still breathing. But he's as full of holes as a pepper pot!" He frowned at Maryette: "Allons!My comrade here goes to Sainte Lesse. Drive him there now, in God's name, before the Uhlans come clattering on your heels!"He turned, strode away to the ambulance once more, climbed in, and placed one big arm around the sick driver's shoulder, drawing the man's head down against his breast."Bonne chance!" he called back to the airman, who had now seated himself beside Maryette. "Explain to our little bell-mistress that we're taking her friend to a place where they fool Death every day—where to cheat the grave is a flourishing business! Good-bye! Courage! En route, brave Sister of the World!"The Sister of Charity turned and smiled at Maryette, made her a friendly gesture, threw in the clutch, and, twisting the steering wheel with both sun-browned hands, guided the ma[pg 214]chine out onto the road and sped away swiftly after the cloud of receding dust."Drive on, mademoiselle," said the airman quietly.In his accent there was something poignantly familiar to Maryette, and she turned with a start and looked at him out of her dark blue, tear-marred eyes."Areyoualso American?" she asked."Gunner observer, American air squadron, mademoiselle.""An airman?""Yes. My machine was shot down in Nivelle woods an hour ago."After a silence, as they jogged along between the hazel thickets in the warm afternoon sunshine:"Were you acquainted with my friend?" she asked wistfully."With Jack Burley? A little. I knew him in Calais."The tears welled up into her eyes:"Could you tell me about him?... He was my first friend.... I did not understand him in the beginning, monsieur. Among children[pg 215]it is different; I had known boys—as one knows them at school. But a man, never—and, indeed, I had not thought I had grown up until—he came—Djack—to live at our inn.... The White Doe at Sainte Lesse, monsieur. My father keeps it.""I see," nodded the airman gravely."Yes—that is the way. He came—my first friend, Djack—with mules from America, monsieur—one thousand mules. And God knows Sainte Lesse had never seen the like! As for me—I thought I was a child still—until—do you understand, monsieur?""Yes, Maryette.""Yes, that is how I found I was grown up. He was a man, not a boy—that is how I found out. So he became my first friend. He was quite droll, and very big and kind—and timid—following me about—oh, it was quite droll for both of us, because at first I was afraid, but pretended not to be."She smiled, then suddenly her eyes filled with the tragedy again, and she began to whimper softly to herself, with a faint sound like a hovering pigeon.[pg 216]"Tell me about him," said the airman.She staunched her tears with the edge of her apron."It was that way with us," she managed to say. "I was enchanted and a little frightened—it being my first friendship. He was so big, so droll, so kind.... We were on our way to Nivelle this morning. I was to play the carillon—being mistress of the bells at Sainte Lesse—and there was nobody else to play the bells at Nivelle; and the wounded desired to hear the carillon.""Yes.""So Djack came after me—hearing rumours of Prussians in that direction. They were true—oh, God!—and the Prussians caught us there where you found us."She bowed her supple figure double on the seat, covering her face with her sun-browned hands.The airman drove on, whistling "La Brabançonne" under his breath, and deep in thought. From time to time he glanced at the curved figure beside him; but he said no more for a long time.[pg 217]Toward sunset they drove into the Sainte Lesse highway.He spoke abruptly, dryly:"Anybody can weep for a friend. But few avenge their dead."She looked up, bewildered.They drove under the old Sainte Lesse gate as he spoke. The sunlight lay pink across the walls and tipped the turret of the watch tower with fire.The town seemed very still; nothing was to be seen on the long main street except here and there a Spahi horsemanen vidette, and the clock-tower pigeons circling in their evening flight.The girl, Maryette, looked dumbly into the fading daylight when the cart stopped before her door. The airman took her gently by the arm, and that awakened her. As though stiffened by fatigue she rose and climbed to the sidewalk. He took her unresisting arm and led her through the tunnelled wall and into the White Doe Inn."Get me some supper," he said. "It will take your mind off your troubles."[pg 218]"Yes.""Bread, wine, and some meat, if you have any. I'll be back in a few moments."He left her at the inn door and went out into the street, whistling "La Brabançonne." A cavalryman directed him to the military telephone installed in the house of the notary across the street.His papers identified him; the operator gave him his connection; they switched him to the headquarters of his air squadron, where he made his report."Shot down?" came the sharp exclamation over the wire."Yes, sir, about eleven-thirty this morning on the north edge of Nivelle forest.""The machine?""Done for, sir. They have it.""You?""A scratch—nothing. I had to run.""What else have you to report?"The airman made his brief report in an unemotional voice. Ending it, he asked permission to volunteer for a special service. And for ten minutes the officer at the other[pg 219]end of the wire listened to a proposition which interested him intensely.When the airman finished, the officer said:"Wait till I relay this matter."For a quarter of an hour the airman waited. Finally the operator half turned on his camp chair and made a gesture for him to resume the receiver."If you choose to volunteer for such service," came the message, "it is approved. But understand—you are not ordered on such duty.""I understand. I volunteer.""Very well. Munitions go to you immediately by automobile. It is expected that the wind will blow from the west by morning. By morning, also, all reserves will arrive in the west salient. What is to be your signal?""The carillon from the Nivelle belfry.""What tune?""'La Brabançonne.' If not that, then the tocsin on the great bell, Clovis."In the tiny café the crippled innkeeper sat, his aged, wistful eyes watching three leather-[pg 220]clad airmen who had been whispering together around a table in the corner all the afternoon.They nodded in silence to the new arrival, and he joined them.Daylight faded in the room; the drum in the Sainte Lesse belfry, set to play before the hour sounded, began to turn aloft; the silvery notes of the carillon seemed to shower down from the sky, filling the twilight world with angelic melody. Then, in resonant beauty, the great bell, Bayard, measured the hour.The airman who had just arrived went to a sink, washed the caked blood from his face and tied it up with a first-aid bandage. Then he began to pace the café, his head bent in thought, his nervous hands clasped behind him.The room was dusky when he came back to the table where his three comrades still sat consulting in whispers. The old innkeeper had fallen asleep on his chair by the window. There was no light in the room except what came from stars.[pg 221]"Well," said one of the airmen in a carefully modulated voice, "what are you going to do, Jim?""Stay.""What's the idea?"The bandaged airman rested both hands on the stained table-top:"We quit Nivelle tonight, but our reserves are already coming up and we are to retake Nivelle tomorrow. You flew over the town this morning, didn't you?"All three said yes."You took photographs?""Certainly.""Then you know that our trenches pass under the bell-tower?""Yes.""Very well. The wind is north. When the Boches enter our trenches they'll try to gas our salient while the wind holds. But west winds are predicted after sunrise tomorrow. I'm going to get into the Nivelle belfry tonight with a sack of bombs. I'm going to try to explode their gas cylinders if I can. The[pg 222]tocsin is the signal for our people in the salient.""You're crazy!" remarked one of the airmen."No; I'll bluff it out. I'm to have a Boche uniform in a few moments.""Youarecrazy! You know what they'll do to you, don't you, Jim?"The bandaged airman laughed, but in his eyes there was an odd flicker like a tiny flame. He whistled "La Brabançonne" and glanced coolly about the room.One of the airmen said to another in a whisper:"There you are. Ever since they got his brother he's been figuring on landing a whole bunch of Huns at one clip. This is going to finish him, this business."Another said:"Don't try anything like that, Jim——""Sure, I'll try it," interrupted the bandaged airman pleasantly. "When are you fellows going?""Now."[pg 223]"All right. Take my report. Wait a moment——""For God's sake, Jim, act sensibly!"The bandaged airman laughed, fished out from his clothing somewhere a note book and pencil. One of the others turned an electric torch on the table; the bandaged man made a little sketch, wrote a few lines which the others studied."You can get that note to headquarters in half an hour, can't you, Ed?""Yes.""All right. I'll wait here for my answer.""You know what risk you run, Jim?" pleaded the youngest of the airmen."Oh, certainly. All right, then. You'd better be on your way."After they had left the room, the bandaged airman sat beside the table, thinking hard in the darkness.Presently from somewhere across the dusky river meadow the sudden roar of an airplane engine shattered the silence; then another whirring racket broke out; then another.He heard presently the loud rattle of his[pg 224]comrades' machines from high above him in the star-set sky; he heard the stertorous breathing of the old innkeeper; he heard again the crystalline bell-notes break out aloft, linger in linked harmonies, die away; he heard Bayard's mellow thunder proclaim the hour once more.There was a watch on his wrist, but it had been put out of business when his machine fell in Nivelle woods. Glancing at it mechanically he saw the phosphorescent dial glimmer faintly under shattered hands that remained fixed.An hour later Bayard shook the starlit silence ten times.As the last stroke boomed majestically through the darkness an automobile came racing into the long, unlighted street of Sainte Lesse and halted, panting, at the door of the White Doe Inn.The airman went out to the doorstep, saluted the staff captain who leaned forward from the tonneau and turned a flash on him. Then, satisfied, the officer lifted a bundle from[pg 225]the tonneau and handed it to the airman. A letter was pinned to the bundle.After the airman had read the letter twice, the staff captain leaned a trifle nearer."Do you think it can be done?" he demanded bluntly."Yes, sir.""Very well. Here are your munitions, too."He lifted from the tonneau a bomb-thrower's sack, heavy and full. The airman took it and saluted."It means the cross," said the staff captain dryly. And to the engineer chauffeur: "Let loose!"

Where the Fontanes highroad crosses the byroad to Sainte Lesse they were halted by a dusty column moving rapidly west—four hundred American mules convoyed by gendarmerie and remount troopers.

The sweating riders, passing at a canter, shouted from their saddles to the big gendarme in the market cart that neither Nivelle nor Sainte Lesse were to be defended at present, and that all stragglers were being directed to Fontanes and Le Marronnier. Mules and drivers defiled at a swinging trot, enveloped in torrents of white dust; behind them rode a peloton of the remount, lashing recalcitrant animals forward; and in the rear of these rolled automobile ambulances, red crosses aglow in the rays of the setting sun.[pg 212]

The driver of the last ambulance seemed to be ill; his head lay on the shoulder of a Sister of Charity who had taken the steering wheel.

The gendarme beside Maryette signalled her to stop; then he got out of the market cart and, lifting the body of the American muleteer in his powerful arms, strode across the road. The airman leaped from the market cart and followed him.

Between them they drew out a stretcher, laid the muleteer on it, and shoved it back into the vehicle.

There was a brief consultation, then they both came back to Maryette, who, rigid in her seat and very pale, sat watching the procedure in silence.

The gendarme said:

"I go to Fontanes. There's a dressing station on the road. It appears that your young man's heart hasn't quite stopped yet——"

The girl rose excitedly to her feet, but the gendarme gently forced her back into her seat and laid the reins in her hands. To the airman he growled:[pg 213]

"I did not tell this poor child to hope; I merely informed her that her friend yonder is still breathing. But he's as full of holes as a pepper pot!" He frowned at Maryette: "Allons!My comrade here goes to Sainte Lesse. Drive him there now, in God's name, before the Uhlans come clattering on your heels!"

He turned, strode away to the ambulance once more, climbed in, and placed one big arm around the sick driver's shoulder, drawing the man's head down against his breast.

"Bonne chance!" he called back to the airman, who had now seated himself beside Maryette. "Explain to our little bell-mistress that we're taking her friend to a place where they fool Death every day—where to cheat the grave is a flourishing business! Good-bye! Courage! En route, brave Sister of the World!"

The Sister of Charity turned and smiled at Maryette, made her a friendly gesture, threw in the clutch, and, twisting the steering wheel with both sun-browned hands, guided the ma[pg 214]chine out onto the road and sped away swiftly after the cloud of receding dust.

"Drive on, mademoiselle," said the airman quietly.

In his accent there was something poignantly familiar to Maryette, and she turned with a start and looked at him out of her dark blue, tear-marred eyes.

"Areyoualso American?" she asked.

"Gunner observer, American air squadron, mademoiselle."

"An airman?"

"Yes. My machine was shot down in Nivelle woods an hour ago."

After a silence, as they jogged along between the hazel thickets in the warm afternoon sunshine:

"Were you acquainted with my friend?" she asked wistfully.

"With Jack Burley? A little. I knew him in Calais."

The tears welled up into her eyes:

"Could you tell me about him?... He was my first friend.... I did not understand him in the beginning, monsieur. Among children[pg 215]it is different; I had known boys—as one knows them at school. But a man, never—and, indeed, I had not thought I had grown up until—he came—Djack—to live at our inn.... The White Doe at Sainte Lesse, monsieur. My father keeps it."

"I see," nodded the airman gravely.

"Yes—that is the way. He came—my first friend, Djack—with mules from America, monsieur—one thousand mules. And God knows Sainte Lesse had never seen the like! As for me—I thought I was a child still—until—do you understand, monsieur?"

"Yes, Maryette."

"Yes, that is how I found I was grown up. He was a man, not a boy—that is how I found out. So he became my first friend. He was quite droll, and very big and kind—and timid—following me about—oh, it was quite droll for both of us, because at first I was afraid, but pretended not to be."

She smiled, then suddenly her eyes filled with the tragedy again, and she began to whimper softly to herself, with a faint sound like a hovering pigeon.[pg 216]

"Tell me about him," said the airman.

She staunched her tears with the edge of her apron.

"It was that way with us," she managed to say. "I was enchanted and a little frightened—it being my first friendship. He was so big, so droll, so kind.... We were on our way to Nivelle this morning. I was to play the carillon—being mistress of the bells at Sainte Lesse—and there was nobody else to play the bells at Nivelle; and the wounded desired to hear the carillon."

"Yes."

"So Djack came after me—hearing rumours of Prussians in that direction. They were true—oh, God!—and the Prussians caught us there where you found us."

She bowed her supple figure double on the seat, covering her face with her sun-browned hands.

The airman drove on, whistling "La Brabançonne" under his breath, and deep in thought. From time to time he glanced at the curved figure beside him; but he said no more for a long time.[pg 217]

Toward sunset they drove into the Sainte Lesse highway.

He spoke abruptly, dryly:

"Anybody can weep for a friend. But few avenge their dead."

She looked up, bewildered.

They drove under the old Sainte Lesse gate as he spoke. The sunlight lay pink across the walls and tipped the turret of the watch tower with fire.

The town seemed very still; nothing was to be seen on the long main street except here and there a Spahi horsemanen vidette, and the clock-tower pigeons circling in their evening flight.

The girl, Maryette, looked dumbly into the fading daylight when the cart stopped before her door. The airman took her gently by the arm, and that awakened her. As though stiffened by fatigue she rose and climbed to the sidewalk. He took her unresisting arm and led her through the tunnelled wall and into the White Doe Inn.

"Get me some supper," he said. "It will take your mind off your troubles."[pg 218]

"Yes."

"Bread, wine, and some meat, if you have any. I'll be back in a few moments."

He left her at the inn door and went out into the street, whistling "La Brabançonne." A cavalryman directed him to the military telephone installed in the house of the notary across the street.

His papers identified him; the operator gave him his connection; they switched him to the headquarters of his air squadron, where he made his report.

"Shot down?" came the sharp exclamation over the wire.

"Yes, sir, about eleven-thirty this morning on the north edge of Nivelle forest."

"The machine?"

"Done for, sir. They have it."

"You?"

"A scratch—nothing. I had to run."

"What else have you to report?"

The airman made his brief report in an unemotional voice. Ending it, he asked permission to volunteer for a special service. And for ten minutes the officer at the other[pg 219]end of the wire listened to a proposition which interested him intensely.

When the airman finished, the officer said:

"Wait till I relay this matter."

For a quarter of an hour the airman waited. Finally the operator half turned on his camp chair and made a gesture for him to resume the receiver.

"If you choose to volunteer for such service," came the message, "it is approved. But understand—you are not ordered on such duty."

"I understand. I volunteer."

"Very well. Munitions go to you immediately by automobile. It is expected that the wind will blow from the west by morning. By morning, also, all reserves will arrive in the west salient. What is to be your signal?"

"The carillon from the Nivelle belfry."

"What tune?"

"'La Brabançonne.' If not that, then the tocsin on the great bell, Clovis."

In the tiny café the crippled innkeeper sat, his aged, wistful eyes watching three leather-[pg 220]clad airmen who had been whispering together around a table in the corner all the afternoon.

They nodded in silence to the new arrival, and he joined them.

Daylight faded in the room; the drum in the Sainte Lesse belfry, set to play before the hour sounded, began to turn aloft; the silvery notes of the carillon seemed to shower down from the sky, filling the twilight world with angelic melody. Then, in resonant beauty, the great bell, Bayard, measured the hour.

The airman who had just arrived went to a sink, washed the caked blood from his face and tied it up with a first-aid bandage. Then he began to pace the café, his head bent in thought, his nervous hands clasped behind him.

The room was dusky when he came back to the table where his three comrades still sat consulting in whispers. The old innkeeper had fallen asleep on his chair by the window. There was no light in the room except what came from stars.[pg 221]

"Well," said one of the airmen in a carefully modulated voice, "what are you going to do, Jim?"

"Stay."

"What's the idea?"

The bandaged airman rested both hands on the stained table-top:

"We quit Nivelle tonight, but our reserves are already coming up and we are to retake Nivelle tomorrow. You flew over the town this morning, didn't you?"

All three said yes.

"You took photographs?"

"Certainly."

"Then you know that our trenches pass under the bell-tower?"

"Yes."

"Very well. The wind is north. When the Boches enter our trenches they'll try to gas our salient while the wind holds. But west winds are predicted after sunrise tomorrow. I'm going to get into the Nivelle belfry tonight with a sack of bombs. I'm going to try to explode their gas cylinders if I can. The[pg 222]tocsin is the signal for our people in the salient."

"You're crazy!" remarked one of the airmen.

"No; I'll bluff it out. I'm to have a Boche uniform in a few moments."

"Youarecrazy! You know what they'll do to you, don't you, Jim?"

The bandaged airman laughed, but in his eyes there was an odd flicker like a tiny flame. He whistled "La Brabançonne" and glanced coolly about the room.

One of the airmen said to another in a whisper:

"There you are. Ever since they got his brother he's been figuring on landing a whole bunch of Huns at one clip. This is going to finish him, this business."

Another said:

"Don't try anything like that, Jim——"

"Sure, I'll try it," interrupted the bandaged airman pleasantly. "When are you fellows going?"

"Now."[pg 223]

"All right. Take my report. Wait a moment——"

"For God's sake, Jim, act sensibly!"

The bandaged airman laughed, fished out from his clothing somewhere a note book and pencil. One of the others turned an electric torch on the table; the bandaged man made a little sketch, wrote a few lines which the others studied.

"You can get that note to headquarters in half an hour, can't you, Ed?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll wait here for my answer."

"You know what risk you run, Jim?" pleaded the youngest of the airmen.

"Oh, certainly. All right, then. You'd better be on your way."

After they had left the room, the bandaged airman sat beside the table, thinking hard in the darkness.

Presently from somewhere across the dusky river meadow the sudden roar of an airplane engine shattered the silence; then another whirring racket broke out; then another.

He heard presently the loud rattle of his[pg 224]comrades' machines from high above him in the star-set sky; he heard the stertorous breathing of the old innkeeper; he heard again the crystalline bell-notes break out aloft, linger in linked harmonies, die away; he heard Bayard's mellow thunder proclaim the hour once more.

There was a watch on his wrist, but it had been put out of business when his machine fell in Nivelle woods. Glancing at it mechanically he saw the phosphorescent dial glimmer faintly under shattered hands that remained fixed.

An hour later Bayard shook the starlit silence ten times.

As the last stroke boomed majestically through the darkness an automobile came racing into the long, unlighted street of Sainte Lesse and halted, panting, at the door of the White Doe Inn.

The airman went out to the doorstep, saluted the staff captain who leaned forward from the tonneau and turned a flash on him. Then, satisfied, the officer lifted a bundle from[pg 225]the tonneau and handed it to the airman. A letter was pinned to the bundle.

After the airman had read the letter twice, the staff captain leaned a trifle nearer.

"Do you think it can be done?" he demanded bluntly.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Here are your munitions, too."

He lifted from the tonneau a bomb-thrower's sack, heavy and full. The airman took it and saluted.

"It means the cross," said the staff captain dryly. And to the engineer chauffeur: "Let loose!"

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