"I've a pistol I took from a dead German near Liége," the boy answered, showing it. "It's loaded."
"Too much noise," said the peasant, shaking his head.
"It's all I can do," protested the boy. "I haven't Croquier's grip, and somehow, I couldn't use a knife. It's too much like murder."
"And you?" queried the hunchback, turning to his friend. "You dare? You are not afraid?"
"Hear you!" the peasant answered. "My brother-in-law lives in a mining village. There was a battle near by, the day before yesterday. They made him march in front of the troops and he was killed by a French bullet.
"A wounded French sergeant dragged himself to the house. My sister hid him. Soon after, a German officer came. He asked for food. When my sister commenced to get it ready, they complained that she was slow. He struck her. He behaved like a brute and—"
"Well?" queried Croquier, as the man paused.
"The wounded sergeant," the peasant continued, "drew his pistol and shot the German.
"Emile, my nephew, was there. The dying Frenchman asked for water. The boy went to the well and brought some. When he returned, other Germans were in the house. An officer asked him for the water. He answered, politely enough: