"The Germans treated you badly?"
He smiled and shrugged.
"What would you have? It is war."
"It is terrible. And what will you do now that you are across the border? Will they not intern you?"
"I must find civilian clothing."
"And then?"
He laughed joyously.
"I will cross into France at the Swiss border, and rejoin my regiment. Parbleu! There are some there who will think I have risen from the dead."
She was silent for a moment regarding him thoughtfully, her eyes brightening with a new interest. At first he had seemed a man of middle age, a broken man, such as passed begging along the roads of the village. And the dirt and the ragged beard that covered his face had done nothing to dispel the illusion. But she saw now how far she had been mistaken, for his laughter rippled forth from his lean muscular throat as though in pure joy at its own utterance. He was not bitter--he was merely experienced.
"You're a Frenchman, Monsieur?"