The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little town hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written upon their faces.
One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in appearance, with grey hair, though very likely not beyond middle age; and she wore a short, very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice, and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her face waited with a consuming eagerness for news, the lips working, the eyes staring.
"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken," exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside?"
"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably; and then those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy are made to draw lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."
"O look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"
"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."
All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands, leant forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.
"Jean Paulet——" sounded clearly.
A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed.
She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped senseless to the ground.