"Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France—the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack—a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one's gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there—through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of God!—so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land——"
"Maryette—I am so sorry for you——"
"Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!"
"Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette——"
"No—my heart is broken——"
"Vooz ates tray, tray belle——"
The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now—too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart.
A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers:
"Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us. That is not regulation in England—that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?"
There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling.