LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

nevertheless true?" She had turned around from the fire where her own soup simmered in the kettle. As she spoke again she rose and came to the table.

      He said: "It must have been cannon that I heard. Because, not long afterward, out of the fog came a great aëroplane rushing inland from the sea—flying swiftly above me—right over me!—and staggering like a wounded duck—it had one aileron broken—and sheered away into the fog, northward, Marie-Josephine."

      Her work-worn hands, tightly clenched, rested now on the table and she leaned there, looking down at him.

      "Was it an enemy—this airship, Jacques?"

      "In the mist flying and the ragged clouds I could not tell. It might have been English. It must have been, I think—coming as it came from the sea. But I am troubled, Marie-Josephine. Were the guns at sea an enemy's guns? Did the aëroplane come to earth in safety? Where? In the Forest of Laïs? I found no trace of it."

      She said, tremulous perhaps from standing too long motionless and intent:

      "Is it possible that the Boches would come into these solitary moors, where there are no people any more, only the creatures of the Laïs woods, and the curlew and the lapwings which pass at evening?"

      He ate thoughtfully and in silence for a while; then:

      "They go, usually—the Boches—where there is plunder—murder to be done.... Spying to be done.... God knows what purpose animates the Huns.... After all, Lorient is not so far away.... Yet it surely must have been an English aëroplane, beaten off by some enemy ship—a submarine perhaps. God send that the rocks of the Isle des Chouans take care of her—with their teeth!"

      He drank his cider—a sip or two only—then, setting aside the glass:

      "I went from the Rocks of Eryx to Laïs Woods. I called as loudly as I could; the wind whirled my voice back into my throat.... I am not yet very strong....

      "Then I went into the wood as far as my strength permitted. I heard and saw nothing, Marie-Josephine."

      "Would they be dead?" she asked.

      "They were planing to earth. I don't know how much control they had, whether they could steer—choose a landing place. There are plenty of safe places on these moors."

      "If their airship is crippled, what can they do, these English flying men, out there on the moors in the rain and wind? When the coast guard passes we must tell him."

      "After lunch I shall go out again as far as my strength allows.... If the rain would cease and the mist lift, one might see something—be of some use, perhaps–"

      "Ought you to go, Monsieur Jacques?"

      "Could I fail to try to find them—Englishmen—and perhaps injured? Surely I should go, Marie-Josephine."

      "The coast guard–"

      "He passed the Eryx Rocks at daylight. He is at Sainte-Ylva now. Tonight, when I see his comrade's lantern, I shall stop him and report. But in the meanwhile I must go out and search."

      "Spare thyself—for the trenches, Jacques. Remain indoors today." She began to unpin the coiffe which she always wore ceremoniously at meals when he was present.

      He smiled: "Thou knowest I must go, Marie-Josephine."

      "And if thou come upon them in the forest and they are Huns?"

      He laughed: "They are English, I tell thee, Marie-Josephine!"

      She nodded; under her breath, staring at the rain-lashed window: "Like thy father, thou must go forth," she muttered; "go always where thy spirit calls. And once he went. And came no more. And God help us all in Finistère, where all are born to grief."

      CHAPTER VII

      THE AIRMAN

      She had seated herself on a stool by the hearth. Presently she spread her apron with trembling fingers, took the glazed bowl of soup upon her lap and began to eat, slowly, casting long, unquiet glances at him from time to time where he still at table leaned heavily, looking out into the rain.

      When he caught her eye he smiled, summoning her with a nod of his boyish head. She set aside her bowl obediently, and, rising, brought him his crutches. And at the same moment somebody knocked lightly on the outer door.

      Marie-Josephine had unpinned her coiffe. Now she pinned it on over her bonnet before going to the door, glancing uneasily around at him while she tied her tresses and settled the delicate starched wings of her bonnet.

      "That's odd," he said, "that knocking," staring at the door. "Perhaps it is the lost Englishman."

      "God send them," she whispered, going to the door and opening it.

      It certainly seemed to be one of the lost Englishmen—a big, square-shouldered, blond young fellow, tall and powerful, in the leather dress of an aëronaut. His glass mask was lifted like the visor of a tilting helmet, disclosing a red, weather-beaten face, wet with rain. Strength, youth, rugged health was their first impression of this leather-clad man from the clouds.

      He stepped inside the house immediately, halted when he caught sight of Wayland in his undress uniform, glanced involuntarily at his crutches and bandaged leg, cast a quick, penetrating glance right and left; then he spoke pleasantly in his hesitating, imperfect French—so oddly imperfect that Wayland could not understand him at all.

      "Who are you?" he demanded in English.

      The airman seemed astonished for an instant, then a quick smile broke out on his ruddy features:

      "I say, this is lucky! Fancy finding an Englishman here!—wherever this place may be." He laughed. "Of course I know I'm 'somewhere in France,' as the censor has it, but I'm hanged if I know where!"

      "Come in and shut the door," said Wayland, reassured. Marie-Josephine closed the door. The aëronaut came forward, stood dripping a moment, then took the chair to which Wayland pointed, seating himself as though a trifle tired.

      "Shot down," he explained, gaily. "An enemy submarine winged us out yonder somewhere. I tramped over these bally moors for hours before I found a sign of any path. A sheepwalk brought me here."

      "You are lucky. There is only one house on these moors—this! Who are you?" asked Wayland.

      "West—flight-lieutenant, 10th division, Cinque-Ports patrolling squadron."

      "Good heavens, man! What are you doing in Finistère?"

      "What!"

      "You are in Brittany, province of Finistère. Didn't you know it?"

      The air-officer seemed astounded. Presently he said: "The dirty weather foxed us. Then that fellow out yonder winged us. I was glad enough to see a coast line."

      "Did you fall?"

      "No; we controlled our landing pretty well."

      "Where did you land?"

      There was a second's hesitation; the airman looked at Wayland, glanced at his crippled leg.

      "Out there near some woods," he said. "My pilot's there now trying to patch up.... You are not French, are you?"

      "American."

      "Oh! A—volunteer, I presume."

      "Foreign Legion—2d."

      "I see. Back from the trenches with a leg."

      "It's nearly well. I'll be back soon."

      "Can you walk?" asked the airman so abruptly that Wayland, looking at him, hesitated, he did not quite know why.

      "Not very far," he replied, cautiously. "I can get to the window with my crutches pretty well."

      And the next moment he felt ashamed of his caution when the airman laughed frankly.

      "I need a guide to some petrol," he said. "Evidently you can't go with me."

      "Haven't you enough petrol to take you to Lorient?"

      "How far is Lorient?"

      Wayland told him.

      "I don't

Скачать книгу