The German seemed amused.
“I am on the right road, Monsieur,” he said; “this is the way to Paris, I believe.”
He let his horse go, for one of the sergeants pointed out the red roofs of the buildings peeping up through the glade of the thicket. When he had observed them, he bowed again to Beatrix and addressed her, to her infinite surprise, in English as good as her own.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “beware of that old man. He does not tell the truth.”
He was gone with the words, and she saw him a few moments later as he rode up to the farm and began to beat loudly upon the door. Old Picard, who was nodding his head and snuffing incessantly, vouchsafed no remark. She, on her part, had viewed the event as some scene of a play. Uhlans at Niederbronn! She did not believe it even then.
“Oh, Monsieur Picard,” she said, turning her pony suddenly, “you do not mean it; they were not really Germans?”
“Madame,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, “what I mean or do not mean is of little account.”
“But if they are Germans what are they doing upon the road to Niederbronn?”
He stroked his chin.