"Coeur Dieu!" muttered Brocard, gazing pityingly at Lorraine; "I've half a mind to turn franc-tireur myself and drill holes in the hides of these Prussian swine!"
He stepped out into the road and beckoned Jack and Lorraine. When they came to his side he pointed to a stone cottage, low and badly thatched, hidden among the trunks of the young beech growth. A team of horses harnessed to a carriage was standing before the door; smoke rose from the dilapidated chimney.
"I have a guest," he said; "you need not fear him. Come!"
In a dozen steps they entered the low doorway, Brocard leading, Lorraine leaning heavily on Jack's shoulder.
"Pst! There is a thick-headed Englishman in the next room; let him sleep in peace," murmured Brocard.
He threw a blanket over the bed, shoved the logs in the fireplace with his hobnailed boots until the sparks whirled upward, and the little flames began to rustle and snap.
Lorraine sank down on the bed, covering her head with her arms; Jack dropped into a chair by the fire, looking miserably from Lorraine to Brocard.
The latter clasped his big rough hands between his knees and leaned forward, chewing a stem of a dead leaf, his bright eyes fixed on the reviving fire.
"Morteyn! Morteyn!" he repeated; "it exists no longer. There are many dead there--dead in the garden, in the court, on the lawn--dead floating in the pond, the river--dead rotting in the thickets, the groves, the forest. I saw them--I, Brocard the poacher."
After a moment he resumed: "There were more poachers than Jean Brocard in Morteyn. I saw the Prussian officers stand in the carrefours and shoot the deer as they ran in, a line of soldiers beating the woods behind them. I saw the Saxons laugh as they shot at the pheasants and partridges; I saw them firing their revolvers at rabbits and hares. They brought to their camp-fires a great camp-wagon piled high with game--boars, deer, pheasants, and hares. For that I hated them. Perhaps I touched one or two of them while I was firing at white blackbirds--I really cannot tell."
He turned an amused yellow eye on Jack, but his face sobered the next moment, and he continued: "I heard the fusillade on the Saint-Lys highway; I did not go to inquire if they were amusing themselves. Ma foi! I myself keep away from Uhlans when God permits. And so these Uhlan wolves got old Tricasse at last. Zut! C'est embêtant! And poor old Passerat, too--and Brun, and all the rest! Tonnerre de Dieu! I--but, no--no! I am doing very well--I, Jean Brocard, poacher; I am doing quite well, in my little way."