“Queer!” she repeated stupidly. “Their clothes now—their clothes seemed not to fit them. They are such queer-looking soldiers—for Frenchmen.”
“Oh, if only the good God would give me back my eyes for one little hour!” cried the blind man impotently. Then, in a different voice, “What is that?” he said, and swung about, facing north. His ears, keener than theirs, as a blind man's ears are apt to be, had caught, above the babble of their excited voices, another sound.
Scuttling, shuffling, half falling, the palsied man, moving at the best speed of which he was capable, rounded a heap of shattered grey masonry that had once been the village church, and made toward the clustered group of them. His jaws worked spasmodically. With one fluttering hand he pointed, over his left shoulder, behind him. He strove to speak words, but from his throat issued only clicking, slobbery grunts and gasps.
“What is it now?” demanded the old woman.
She clutched him, forcing him to a quaking standstill. He kept on gurgling and kept on pointing.
“Soldiers? Are there more soldiers coming?”
He nodded eagerly.
“From the north?”
He made signs of assent.
“Frenchmen?”