It was the only word of French the Highlander knew, and, on shouting it three times in rapid succession, and with increased emphasis, it had effect. The old woman lowered her weapon, and shading her eyes with a lean, brown, and knotted hand, exclaimed. “Ah, moi dieu, les Anglais! On me dit que les Anglais sont les amis des Belgiques. Et je vous aurai tué! Pardonnez-moi messieurs.”
This speech was of course lost upon the Highlanders, who would have laughed—so comic was the picture of this old woman with the ancient gun—had they not been faint from exhaustion.
Now, as she beckoned to them to approach, they doffed their caps and filed in at her gate, Sergeant Mackay leading the way.
The interior of the house was as they had expected—scrupulously neat and clean.
“Wipe your boots, boys,” Sergeant Mackay whispered. “We mustn’t put the old lady out more than we can help.”
They all trooped in. As soon as they were seated the old woman vanished through a low doorway, reappearing a few seconds later laden with bread and cheese and wine, which she watched them eat and drink with perfect satisfaction, and when they had finished, conducted them to a loft at the back of the cottage, where she made them understand by signs they could lie as long as they pleased.
“I kinna think,” Sergeant Mackay said, as soon as their hostess had retired, “where the Germans are. It’s passing strange they have not put in an appearance here.”
“Maybe they’ve gone by and missed this spot. It’s nae sae handy,” Private Findlay said. “Anyhow, I’m for sleeping—for it’s ten days since I shut my eyes.”
“It’s the same with me,” ejaculated Private McCallum. “I hae not slept a wink since we left Plymouth.”