Paul could not move. The baby was asleep in his arms. Little, trusting baby—his baby! The soldier dropped his head in the folds of little Jeanne's dress and sobbed.
A slight tap upon his shoulder brought Paul's head erect. Bending over him was the same old man. It was the kind-faced little peasant who had spoken to him at the cellar door.
"Come, my son," he said, "You are a soldier of France! Would that my old body could fight in your place! But it is you who must go. France needs you, my son."
He slowly helped the soldier to his feet, as the baby in his arms slept on.
Paul saw the light of goodness shining out of the old eyes. With a surge of joy in his heart, he held out his child.
"Oh, my friend," he cried, "if you will take my baby, I can go. I can then go and fight for France. But never, never could I leave her alone, even for France! Take her, friend, and guard her with your life."
The old peasant's eyes grew troubled. For he knew not what he, a poverty-stricken, weakened old man might do with an infant, here in this smoldering ruin of a village. But he held out his arms.
"Yes, I shall take care of her," he promised.