Suddenly the cracked bell rang out from the distant village. At that moment two long V-shaped strings of mallards came winging toward us from the north. I saw the curé glance at them. Then he held out his hand to me.
"You take them—I cannot," he said hurriedly. "I haven't a moment to lose—it is the bell for mass. Here's the key. Lock up when you leave."
"Dine with me to-night," I insisted, one eye still on the incoming ducks. "You have no bonne."
His hand was on the gabion door. "And if the northeast wind holds," he called back, "shall we shoot again to-night?"
"Yes, to-night!" I insisted.
"Then I'll come to dinner." And the door closed with a click.
Through the firing-slit I could see him leaping across the marsh toward the gray church with the cracked bell, and as he disappeared by the short cut I pulled the trigger of both barrels—and missed.
An hour later Suzette greeted me with eyes full of tears and anxiety.