“Advance and give the countersign!” I urged.
“Jesu—” he murmured faintly. I drew from my breast the cross that Mathilde had given me, and pressed it to his lips. He sighed softly, lifted his hand to it, and then fell back, never to speak again.
After covering his face and decently laying the body out, I mounted the horse again. Glancing up, I saw that this bad business had befallen not twenty feet from a high Calvary at the roadside.
I was in a painful quandary. Did Labrouk mean that the countersign was “Jesu,” or was that word the broken prayer of his soul as it hurried forth? So strange a countersign I had never heard, and yet it might be used in this Catholic country. This day might be some great feast of the Church—possibly that of the naming of Christ (which was the case, as I afterwards knew). I rode on, tossed about in my mind. So much hung on this. If I could not give the countersign, I should have to fight my way back again the road I came. But I must try my luck. So I went on, beating up my heart to confidence; and now I came to the St. Louis Gate. A tiny fire was burning near, and two sentinels stepped forward as I rode boldly on the entrance.
“Qui va la?” was the sharp call.
“France,” was my reply, in a voice as like the peasant’s as possible.
“Advance and give the countersign,” came the demand.
Another voice called from the darkness of the wall: “Come and drink, comrade; I’ve a brother with Bougainville.”
“Jesu,” said I to the sentinel, answering his demand for the countersign, and I spurred on my horse idly, though my heart was thumping hard, for there were several sturdy fellows lying beyond the dull handful of fire.
Instantly the sentinel’s hand came to my bridle-rein. “Halt!” roared he.