It was indeed a tiny house whose gable just showed among the trees, and they made their way cautiously toward it. It stood at the side of a small garden, with two or three outbuildings about it, and it was shielded on one side by an orchard. No smoke rose from the chimney, nor was there any sign of life.
And then Stewart, who had been crouching behind the hedge beside his companion, looking at all this, rose suddenly to his feet and started forward.
“Come on,” he cried; “the Germans haven’t been this way—there’s a chicken,” and he pointed to where a plump hen was scratching industriously under the hedge.
“Here is another sign,” said the girl, as they crossed the garden, and pointed to the ground. “The potatoes and turnips have not been dug.”
“It must be here we’re going to have that breakfast!” cried Stewart, and knocked triumphantly at the door.
There was no response and he knocked again. Then he tried the door, but it was locked. There was another door at the rear of the house, but it also was locked. There were also three windows, but they were all tightly closed with wooden shutters.
“We’ve got to have something to eat, that’s certain,” said Stewart, doggedly. “We shall have to break in,” and he looked about for a weapon with which to attack the door.
“No, no,” protested the girl, quickly. “That would be too like the Uhlans! Let us see if there is not some other way!”
“What other way can there be?”
“Perhaps there is none,” she answered; “and if there is not, we will go on our way, and leave this house undamaged. You too seem to have been poisoned by this virus of war!”