"Will you go to the devil!" he snapped out.
"No, I won't."
Michaud, perplexed, had remained silent.
"If things go wrong they'll make a clean sweep of us all, I tell you," said Guild. "Once more, Harry, will you mind your own business?"
"No," said Darrel, blandly.
Guild turned to Michaud: "What were you saying?"
The forester, controlling his anger and emotion, continued the story of the sniper near Trois Fontaines. Then he outlined the miserable affair of the hill pasture.
"There remains for us now only two courses," he ended. "Either we turn franc-tireur and make our bivouac yonder in the forest, or we gather our people at The Pulpit, lie there tonight, and at daylight strike out for the Dutch frontier."
Guild nodded.
"There is a little hole in the rocks at The Pulpit—scarce large enough to be called a cave. Since the war came upon us, foreseeing necessity, my men have carried arms and provisions to The Pulpit—well hidden, Monsieur. I think, now, that it is a better refuge than this house."