Wading knee-deep through soaking foliage, I piloted my horse with its mute burden across the fields; and, after a few minutes a violent desire to laugh seized me and persisted, but I bit my lip and called up a few remaining sentiments of decency.
As for my turkey-girl, she sat stiffly in the saddle, with a firmness and determination that proved her to be a stranger to horses. I scarcely dared look at her, so fearful was I of laughing.
As we emerged from the meadow I heard the cannon sounding again at a great distance, and this perhaps sobered me, for presently all desire of laughter left me, and I turned into the road which led through the birch thicket, anxious to accomplish my mission and have done with it as soon as might be.
“Are we near La Trappe?” I asked, respectfully.
Had she pouted, or sulked, or burst into reproaches, I should have cared little—in fact, an outburst might have relieved me.
But she answered me so sweetly, and, too, with such composure, that my heart smote me for what I had done to her and what I was still to do.
“Would you rather walk?” I asked, looking up at her.
“No, thank you,” she said, serenely.
So we went on. The spectacle of a cavalryman in full uniform leading a cavalry horse on which was seated an Alsatian girl in bright peasant costume appeared to astonish the few people we passed. One 26 of these foot-farers, a priest who was travelling in our direction, raised his pallid visage to meet my eyes. Then he stole a glance at the girl in the saddle, and I saw a tint of faded color settle under his transparent skin.
The turkey-girl saluted the priest with a bright smile.