"We might venture there," said Hans, "for it is out of the line of soldiers. I am sure that, Herr Lieutenant, all is deserted."
But when he reached the window of the house he returned in a scamper, motioning the Herr Lieutenant away with his hand.
"There are French officers eating there," he announced. "Forward, march," he added, and on they trudged.
The Herr Lieutenant grew whiter and whiter.
"I can go no farther," he gasped, and sank on the grass at the side of the road.
His old wound had broken out afresh, and for a moment or two he looked as if he were dying.
What to do Hans had no idea. While he was perplexing, his brain he heard the sound of a slow, discouraged step, and presently an old peasant, with long, unkempt gray hair and a tired, hopeless face, approached from the wood.
When Hans told him their trouble he hesitated. Kindness and bitterness seemed to struggle hard in his wrinkled face.
"The French have left me almost nothing," he said. Then he hesitated. He looked at Hans, then at the suffering man on the grass.
"My house is near here," he said at last, reluctantly. Then he called, "Heinrich! Heinrich!"