“And it was—?”
“Those thousand francs, colonel—”
“Not a sou until your story has been tested. Come! Who is it who has murdered my men?”
“It is Count Eustace of Chateau Noir.”
“You lie!” cried the colonel, angrily. “A gentleman and a nobleman could not have done such crimes.”
The peasant shrugged his shoulders. “It is evident to me that you do not know the count. It is this way, colonel. What I tell you is the truth, and I am not afraid that you should test it. The Count of Chateau Noir is a hard man, even at the best time he was a hard man. But of late he has been terrible. It was his son’s death, you know. His son was under Douay, and he was taken, and then in escaping from Germany he met his death. It was the count’s only child, and indeed we all think that it has driven him mad. With his peasants he follows the German armies. I do not know how many he has killed, but it is he who cut the cross upon the foreheads, for it is the badge of his house.”
It was true. The murdered sentries had each had a saltire cross slashed across their brows, as by a hunting-knife. The colonel bent his stiff back and ran his forefinger over the map which lay upon the table.
“The Chateau Noir is not more than four leagues,” he said.
“Three and a kilometre, colonel.”
“You know the place?”