"Here he is! Here he is! Come."
Jean jumped up instantly and dived into the wood. He thought he had stumbled over a rut. He leapt into the copse. But his legs shook under him. He felt with anguish a growing faintness overcoming him. The cries of his pursuers rang in his ears, everything swam before his eyes. He came upon an open space, felt the fresh wind on his face and lost consciousness.
Late at night he came to his senses. A storm was raging over the forest; he saw that he was lying on a bed of green boughs, in an empty room of the disused farm, lit by a small lantern. A man was bending over him. Jean realised that it was a French keeper. His first sensation of fear was dissipated by the man's welcome smile.
"Were other shots fired?" he inquired.
"No, no others."
"So much the better; then Uncle Ulrich is safe—he accompanied me to the frontier. I was in the army, but I have come to be a soldier in our own land."
Jean saw that his tunic had been taken off and that there was blood on his shirt. It hurt him to breathe.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked.
"You were hit in the shoulder," said the man, who would have wept if he had not been too ashamed to do so. "It'll heal; fortunately, my comrade and I were making our rounds when you stumbled into the field. The doctor will be here at break of day—don't be alarmed, my comrade has gone to fetch him. Who are you?"