Carefully masking every sign of paper with a thick blue rug, we start off on the homeward journey. Not without tremors, for if we fall into the Uhlan hands anything may happen.
When we pass the last of the little cottages, and the last watching peasant has waved us farewell, I begin to fear.
Six solid miles of thick woods stretch before us rolling down to the roadside on either hand. Here it was they caught the facteur yesterday. I suddenly loathe the sight of those green, feathery branches; they may cover up so much.
I glance at M. A——. His round happy face is rounder and happier than usual. He is even lighting a cigarette, though he finds it difficult, as he is trying to hold the reins and watch the horse and the woods at the same time.
Never have I seen an Ardennois without a pipe or cigarette in his mouth. I think a true son of the soil would start to light one with the death-rattle in his throat!
I imagine a dreaded Prussian behind every tree-trunk and under every bush for some miles. Then I clear my throat and ask mildly as we jog along (it would look suspicious to increase our pace):
“Supposing, just supposing we did happen to run across any Germans, and they did threaten to shoot us unless we delivered up the letters, which would you do?”
“Deliver up the letters, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, puffing at his cigarette.
I breathe a sigh of relief. After all, a whole skin is a more precious possession than much fine writing!
Providence watches over us again. As we near the beautiful avenue of fir trees which connects the Bomale road with Manhay, a peasant scout rushes out to warn us that Uhlans are ahead. We have just time to escape into a little lane.