Lorraine had turned ghastly white; Jack's shocked face was colourless as he drew her away from the ridge with him into the forest. The appalling horror had stunned her; her knees gave way, she stumbled, but Jack held her up by main force, pushing the undergrowth aside and plunging straight on towards the thickest depths of the woods. He had not the faintest idea where he was; he only knew that for the moment it was absolutely necessary for them to get as far away as possible from the Uhlans and their butcher's work. Lorraine knew it, too; she tried to recover her coolness and her strength.
"Here is another road," she said, faintly; "Jack--I--I am not strong--I am--a--little--faint--" Tears were running over her cheeks.
Jack peered out through the trees into the narrow wood-road. Immediately a man hailed him from somewhere among the trees, and he shrank back, teeth set, eyes fixed in desperation.
"Who are you?" came the summons again in French. Jack did not answer. Presently a man in a blue blouse, carrying a whip, stepped out into the road from the bushes on the farther side of the slope.
"Hallo!" he called, softly.
Jack looked at him. The man returned his glance with a friendly and puzzled smile.
"What do you want?" asked Jack, suspiciously.
"Parbleu! what do you want yourself?" asked the peasant, and showed his teeth in a frank laugh.
Jack was silent.
The peasant's eyes fell on Lorraine, leaning against a tree, her blanched face half hidden under the masses of her hair. "Oho!" he said--"a woman!"
Without the least hesitation he came quickly across the road and close up to Jack.
"Thought you might be one of those German spies," he said. "Is the lady ill? Coeur Dieu! but she is white! Monsieur, what has happened? I am Brocard--Jean Brocard; they know me here in the forest--"
"Eh!" broke in Jack--"you say you are Brocard the poacher?"
"Hey! That's it--Brocard, braconnier--at your service. And you are the young nephew of the Vicomte de Morteyn, and that is the little châtelaine De Nesville! Coeur Dieu! Have the Prussians brutalized you, too? Answer me, Monsieur Marche--I know you and I know the little châtelaine--oh, I know!--I, who have watched you at your pretty love-making there in the De Nesville forest, while I was setting my snares for pheasants and hares! Dame! One must live! Yes, I am Brocard--I do not lie. I have taken enough game from your uncle in my time; can I be of service to his nephew?"
He took off his cap with a merry smile, entirely frank, almost impudent. Jack could have hugged him; he did not; he simply told him the exact truth, word by word, slowly and without bitterness, his arm around Lorraine, her head on his shoulder.