“Voilà le Boche!”
The crowd howled in chorus, and Brent felt the cold hand of fear run its fingers down his spine. He had heard that human and bestial sound before when a company of drunken Bavarians had rushed over to raid a front-line trench. The courage in him had felt brittle as glass, and yet as hard. But now he was conscious of a swift and desperate coolness, an instant’s lucidity of thought between spasms of pain.
He went quickly to the door, opened it, and stood facing the crowd, and from the moment that he looked into the wild faces of these men who hung at Bibi’s flanks Brent knew that the mob-horror was upon him. There was no reason in those eyes—nothing in these furious men to which he could appeal. He had a glimpse of Bibi’s teeth flashing white in his black beard, and then he shut the door on them and shot the bolts.
“Fetch him out!”
“We want the woman.”
Marie was standing in the passage, her face like a great round wondering moon.
“Quick! Get out by the back door, and through the garden. Stop Manon; she mustn’t come here.”
Marie stared at him, and Paul went to her and pushed her bodily towards the back door.
“They think I’m a Boche. For God’s sake go and stop her. I’ll keep them interested here.”
She went blundering across the yard, and out by the gate leading into the orchard. Crapaud and half a dozen other men just missed the flick of her petticoat round the angle of the wall as they ran into the yard to guard the back door. Brent had closed and bolted it, and Marie got away.