At the edge of the field where Lucy and Michelle paused among the little crowd, stood old Mère Breton with a covered basket on the ground at her feet. The bright eyes beneath her white cap were sparkling with defiance, as with hands on her hips she stared across the grass at the German post, where a sentry walked, looking curiously toward the little throng. Lucy went up to her with a faint smile of greeting, guessing at the contents of the basket and thinking how hopeless any kindness was which could not follow the prisoners beyond the German border.
“I have something here,” nodded the Frenchwoman, pointing to her basket in answer to Lucy’s glance. “They will get a taste of it on their way, if I should be beaten for befriending them.”
Before Lucy could reply, Michelle drew her attention by pointing silently down the street they had left behind. The little column of prisoners was coming along it, preceded by two German soldiers. The faded blue and khaki of the French and American uniforms showed beyond the armed gray figures leading the way. The pace had not been slackened for these men just from the hospital, in spite of the hot sun and the difficulty of walking among the broken stone.
As they neared the field some of the men glanced back into the desolate streets of Château-Plessis. Lucy knew how dear and greatly to be desired the little town must seem. Here they had cherished a never-dying hope of freedom, and here, too, were friendly hands to tend them, and friendly faces to look upon. Ahead lay Germany, where how many of their comrades had gone to misery and death; where at best only wretchedness awaited them.
In a moment they had come out on to the meadow road, and with one accord every voice in the little crowd was raised in greeting and farewell. Kind faces, eyes brimming with tears, and hands out-stretched with trifling presents of fruit and flowers met the prisoners on their way. The children ran to clasp the soldiers’ hands, and Mère Breton, her basket on her arm, gave out her little store of provisions as fast as her quick fingers could move.
All this took so short a time that the guards at the front and rear of the column had scarcely time to interfere. But now, as the cries on every side grew louder and the crowd closed in almost on the prisoners’ path, one of the rear guards sprang threateningly forward with upraised rifle. Astonishment and fury were written on his face, that these townspeople, so docile and downtrodden, should have dared thus to show their unquenchable love and loyalty. The prisoners passed, and the little crowd, gazing after the retreating column with eyes blurred with tears, hardly noticed the brutal figure advancing upon them. Mère Breton had emptied her basket and was standing now in the road with one hand shading her wrinkled forehead. She was hoping that a little present had found its way to each man’s hands. Her thoughts were all with the prisoners on their hard way, but the German guard took her preoccupation for defiance. He had charged down upon the people remaining in the road, and, as these scattered, the butt of his heavy rifle was raised directly above Mère Breton’s head.
Whether he really meant to strike the old woman down, or only to terrify her, Lucy never knew. In common with half a dozen others she sprang to Mère Breton’s side and dragged her back as the German’s rifle cut through the air. Lucy’s horror almost robbed her of power to think at that moment, but she had to think quickly, nevertheless. Michelle had rushed in front of the old Frenchwoman, in furious defense. She stood facing the guard with hands clenched at her sides, her blazing eyes confronting the man’s angry face, as his rifle struck the earth in its harmless descent. His fingers clutched it as though for another blow and, still seeing Mère Breton as the intended victim, the enraged girl was actually going to offer battle to the burly man before her. But Mère Breton had slipped safely among the crowd, and Lucy, with Madame de la Tour’s face before her eyes, seized her friend’s arm and dragged her back with all her young strength. The guard, indulging in more brandishings of his rifle and a burst of abusive words, turned to rejoin his prisoners.
The little group of people were now fast dispersing, their courage shaken and only fear remaining at the thought of possible punishment. Lucy led Michelle quickly across the meadow toward the town. She did not try to speak at first, for Michelle was still deadly pale and shaking with anger. But she struggled to recover her self-control, and in five minutes more had calmed herself enough to say unsteadily:
“I did not think what I did, Lucy. Only to save that poor old woman I would fight the Boche. I could not help it.”
“I know, but think of your mother, Michelle—she comes first,” said Lucy, this time the wiser of the two.