"You don't mean that you think—" he stammered.
"That I may be killed?" queried the master, calmly. "Certainly. That is all War consists of—killing and being killed. Why should I expect to escape? One always hopes, of course."
For a few significant moments nothing more was said.
Deschamps' father and mother were standing at the door as the master and Horace approached. As they reached the gate, the would-be recruit came swinging out. He turned and kissed his father on both cheeks. His mother clung to him passionately.
"You will take care of him, M. Maubin?" she pleaded.
"Madame," he answered, "Belgium must take care of him. He is his country's son, now, not yours or mine."
His father said only,
"Shoot straight, my son!"
When, on the Friday before, the seventeen men in actual service in the Belgian Army who lived in Beaufays had marched from the little village to join the colors, there had been a certain air of martial gayety. This evening, however, the groups of villagers who passed the master and the two boys looked grave.
