“Back, comrades—a boche trap—” and then, as he sank to his knees, “Vive la France!”
He did not hear—how could he, the deaf one?—the volleys that passed over his body as the French halted and in a swift rush deployed to left and right of the path; the tramping of feet in the brushwood; the dull thud of rifle butts, and squeal of agony as bayonet found what it sought.
When it was over, the French commander looked grimly and without compassion at the sullen face of the German captain staring up at him from the ground, then turned to look down curiously at the body of Le Muet.
“One of yours?” he asked. “He wears no uniform.”
“A peasant from the village—captured; he was deaf and dumb,” grunted the captain with a spasm of pain.
The commander drew himself up sharply. “Deaf and dumb—nonsense!”
The peddler, lying against a tree endeavoring to staunch a leg wound, saw the French commander look at him inquiringly.
“Surely, he was a mute. It was impossible for him to say a word. I knew him very well,” he hastened to answer.
The commander looked at him as if astonished, then turned away, with a murmur.
“I must have been dreaming, but I could have sworn he called out, ‘Vive la France’”; and then, because he was a poet, he added: “But then, when every stone of la patrie cries out, why not this dumb peasant? It is a war of miracles.”