“There’s a peaceful sleeper here, anyhow,” said Billy, pausing, as they trudged along, leading the horse toward the trail. He pointed to a little mound above which had been set a rude wooden cross. It was the grave of a French soldier, for on the cross had been placed his cap, showing the name of his regiment. On the mound, too, had been scattered a few wild flowers.
“Somebody who had a heart for the cause or the fighter must have passed this way,” observed Henri. “The burial of a soldier near the battle lines hasn’t much ceremony, I am told, and surely doesn’t include flowers.”
The boys slept that night in the open, with the saddle for a pillow. They were awakened just before dawn by the restless antics of Bon Ami (“Good Friend”)—for so Henri had named the horse. The animal snorted and tugged at the tether as if scenting some invisible approach through the woods, at the edge of which the three had been passing the night.
Billy and Henri were on their feet in an instant, rubbing their eyes and trying to locate by sight or sound among the trees or elsewhere in the shadowy landscape the cause of Bon Ami’s disturbed action.
Even if the boys had suddenly made up their minds to run to cover, they would not have had time to go very far, for in the instant a scout troop rode out of the woods and straight at them.
The cavalrymen spread in fan shape, and in a moment Billy, Henri and Bon Ami were completely surrounded.
In good but gruff English the ranking officer of the troop commanded: “Come here and give an account of yourselves.”
Billy and Henri made haste to obey, and looking up at the officer on horseback offered their smartest imitation of a military salute. Peering down at them the cavalryman exclaimed:
“So help me, they’re mere boys. Who let you out, my fine kiddies, at this top of the morning? Here, Ned,” calling to one of the nearest troopers, “bring the hot milk and the porridge.”
Billy was becoming slightly nettled at this banter. He had no desire to be taken seriously, but yet not quite so lightly.