So they took the cupboard door from its hinges, wrapped the body of the dead woman carefully in the tattered blankets from her bed, and laid it on the improvised stretcher.
"We should leave some sort of word as to what we are doing," said Bob.
"Suppose some of her folks come back and do not find any trace of her?
They might never know of her death."
"When we find a place to bury her we will find someone to whom we can tell her story, so much as we know of it," answered Dicky. "Perhaps we might even find a priest to help lay her away."
Thus, without definite plan except to beam their lifeless burden to some decent burial ground, the boys set out. They had not proceeded far along the lane that led away from the house when they heard voices. They plodded on, and passed a group of persons whom they took to be Germans from the deep gutturals in which they spoke. They were close to this group, too close for comfort, but passed unobserved in the gathering darkness.
For half an hour they bore the dead woman, passing houses at times, shrouded invariably in darkness. At last they came to a town. German soldiers were in evidence there, in numbers, but took no notice of the two bent forms bearing the stretcher. Bob, who was leading, bumped into a man in the dark.
"Pardon," said the man.
"Pardon, monsieur," replied Bob at once.
This was met with a soft-voiced assurance, in French that it was of no consequence, the remark concluding with the words, "mon fils."
"Are you the Father?" Bob blurted out in English.
"Yes," came in low tones in return. "I am Pere Marquee, my son. Say no more. You may be overheard. Follow me."