“Trapped, by Gord!” panted Berry. He crouched at the crack of the door, the revolver fidgeting in his hand. He was remotely sorry for himself; it seemed so stupidly unfair to have come through two years of war unhurt, only to be ‘done in’ at last by three traitorous old peasants in a deserted town. But he’d do the French a good turn and take half-a-dozen along with him. . . He waited. He was not a man; he was himself a weapon tense with death. And through the long-drawn minutes, nothing happened. All was still.
At last he could bear it no longer. His boots he had taken off. Silently he worked out the wedge and opened the door. He stole down the stairs and into the room below. It was dark now, but there was a white patch of moonlight on the far wall, like a square of paper stuck there. Across it was creeping the black figure of a man. In an instant, Berry had him pinned.
There was a certain satisfaction in gripping and holding and feeling the frightened heart pound under his arm. . . He wondered if the revolver would go off if he used the butt; and why the man made so little effort against him. . . He turned the face up in the square of light, and it was the meek Rogiet, apparently half-dead with fright. Berry gave an ugly little laugh under his breath. He was suddenly and savagely angry. “Where are the others, you Judas?” he whispered, forgetting the little man could not understand. He slid the revolver forward until it rested almost against Rogiet’s grizzled cheek.
Over his own shoulder an arm passed, and the revolver was strongly grasped and held. He wrenched it free and sprang back by one instinctive movement, covering both Rogiet and the priest, who stood quite still before him. Only Rogiet made a little scared movement to get in front of the curé. “Well?” gasped Berry hoarsely. “Well?” The priest raised his hand.
“My son,” he said gently, “you are mistaken. Go again and sleep.”
Berry began to laugh, silently, rocking a little on his feet. “I ’eard, I tell you, you dam liar,” he whispered, “I ’eard ’im,—singin’ and shoutin’ orders to his men. Tell ’em to come and take me! Tell ’em. . .” He wheeled to the door of the other room, for suddenly within it the voice rose again, shouting commands. With a sob, Berry backed away, but only as far as the wall, waiting for death when the door should open.
It opened. And there came out Mère Judic.
It was too late to stop the shot; not too late to jerk up the barrel in the very act. The bullet ripped into the ceiling, and old Judic’s face stared at him horrified in a cloud of dust. The place was full of dust, and furious talking and confusion; out of which the priest came, and stood in front of Berry, and laid a kind hand on his shoulder.
“You are mistaken. But you have not the blame. That is ours. We should have told you. . . But we thought he would be quiet.”
Berry simply waited.