It was an uncanny thing. We stood as if frozen. The heavy breathing of the peasant woman pulsed through the quiet room; the old man stared with all his eyes; a sleepy chicken chuckled from an adjoining shed, but there was no other sound from outside. A minute went by; another; a third, and still we stood stiffly in the centre of the room. At last madame beckoned to the peasant-mother, who stole across the floor toward her and paused at her side. Silently she gave the mother her child, her finger on her lips, her eyes still fixed on the spot near the fireplace.
Then she turned, and laying her hands on the head of the sleeping boy, she began in a strange, low, hissing voice, “This one shall be an avenger of Louvain, he shall be an avenger of Dinant, and Termonde, and Aerschot, and Andenne, and Liége, and Tamines, and Visé. He shall avenge our nation. He shall not forget. In the days of his happiness he shall remember our sorrow; in the days of his prosperity he shall remember our misery; in the days of his strength he shall remember our weakness. Go! Be healed!” Then in her quiet, natural voice, pointing to the spot on a level with her eyes at which she had stared, she added, “A sick child is there, mynheeren. Three, four kilometres away it is, and I must go to it.”
“God!” the old man breathed.
“I must go now. The child is very ill. I must go now, or I shall be too late.”
The old man crossed himself again and again. “God! God!” he repeated helplessly.
The young woman wheeled suddenly. “What is that noise?” she exclaimed, pointing to the roadway.
The roar of an automobile resounded outside, and I knew Pierre was coming.
“Is it the Germans?”