LITMIR.BIZ

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the door!” he cried.

      “What do you want?” she said, rising from her seat and approaching the cellarway.

      “Open the door!”

      “I won’t do any such thing!”

      “Open it or I’ll break it down!” shouted the man angrily.

      She laughed.

      “Hammer away, my good man! Hammer away!”

      He struck with the butt-end of his gun at the closed oaken door. But it would have resisted a battering-ram.

      The forester’s daughter heard him go down the stairs again. Then the soldiers came one after another and tried their strength against the trapdoor. But, finding their efforts useless, they all returned to the cellar and began to talk among themselves.

      The young woman heard them for a short time, then she rose, opened the door of the house; looked out into the night, and listened.

      A sound of distant barking reached her ear. She whistled just as a huntsman would, and almost immediately two great dogs emerged from the darkness, and bounded to her side. She held them tight, and shouted at the top of her voice:

      “Hullo, father!”

      A far-off voice replied:

      “Hullo, Berthine!”

      She waited a few seconds, then repeated:

      “Hullo, father!”

      The voice, nearer now, replied:

      “Hullo, Berthine!”

      “Don’t go in front of the vent-hole!” shouted his daughter. “There are Prussians in the cellar!”

      Suddenly the man’s tall figure could be seen to the left, standing between two tree trunks.

      “Prussians in the cellar?” he asked anxiously. “What are they doing?”

      The young woman laughed.

      “They are the same as were here yesterday. They lost their way, and I’ve given them free lodgings in the cellar.”

      She told the story of how she had alarmed them by firing the revolver, and had shut them up in the cellar.

      The man, still serious, asked:

      “But what am I to do with them at this time of night?”

      “Go and fetch Monsieur Lavigne with his men,” she replied. “He’ll take them prisoners. He’ll be delighted.”

      Her father smiled.

      “So he will—delighted.”

      “Here’s some soup for you,” said his daughter. “Eat it quick, and then be off.”

      The old keeper sat down at the table, and began to eat his soup, having first filled two plates and put them on the floor for the dogs.

      The Prussians, hearing voices, were silent.

      Long-legs set off a quarter of an hour later, and Berthine, with her head between her hands, waited.

      The prisoners began to make themselves heard again. They shouted, called, and beat furiously with the butts of their muskets against the rigid trap-door of the cellar.

      Then they fired shots through the vent-hole, hoping, no doubt, to be heard by any German detachment which chanced to be passing that way.

      The forester’s daughter did not stir, but the noise irritated and unnerved her. Blind anger rose in her heart against the prisoners; she would have been only too glad to kill them all, and so silence them.

      Then, as her impatience grew, she watched the clock, counting the minutes as they passed.

      Her father had been gone an hour and a half. He must have reached the town by now. She conjured up a vision of him telling the story to Monsieur Lavigne, who grew pale with emotion, and rang for his servant to bring him his arms and uniform. She fancied she could bear the drum as it sounded the call to arms. Frightened faces appeared at the windows. The citizen-soldiers emerged from their houses half dressed, out of breath, buckling on their belts, and hurrying to the commandant’s house.

      Then the troop of soldiers, with Long-legs at its head, set forth through the night and the snow toward the forest.

      She looked at the clock. “They may be here in an hour.”

      A nervous impatience possessed her. The minutes seemed interminable. Would the time never come?

      At last the clock marked the moment she had fixed on for their arrival. And she opened the door to listen for their approach. She perceived a shadowy form creeping toward the house. She was afraid, and cried out. But it was her father.

      “They have sent me,” he said, “to see if there is any change in the state of affairs.”

      “No—none.”

      Then he gave a shrill whistle. Soon a dark mass loomed up under the trees; the advance guard, composed of ten men.

      “Don’t go in front of the vent-hole!” repeated Long-legs at intervals.

      And the first arrivals pointed out the much-dreaded vent-hole to those who came after.

      At last the main body of the troop arrived, in all two hundred men, each carrying two hundred cartridges.

      Monsieur Lavigne, in a state of intense excitement, posted them in such a fashion as to surround the whole house, save for a large space left vacant in front of the little hole on a level with the ground, through which the cellar derived its supply of air.

      Monsieur Lavigne struck the trap-door a blow with his foot, and called:

      “I wish to speak to the Prussian officer!”

      The German did not reply.

      “The Prussian officer!” again shouted the commandant.

      Still no response. For the space of twenty minutes Monsieur Lavigne called on this silent officer to surrender with bag and baggage, promising him that all lives should be spared, and that he and his men should be accorded military honors. But he could extort no sign, either of consent or of defiance. The situation became a puzzling one.

      The citizen-soldiers kicked their heels in the snow, slapping their arms across their chest, as cabdrivers do, to warm themselves, and gazing at the vent-hole with a growing and childish desire to pass in front of it.

      At last one of them took the risk—a man named Potdevin, who was fleet of limb. He ran like a deer across the zone of danger. The experiment succeeded. The prisoners gave no sign of life.

      A voice cried:

      “There’s no one there!”

      And another soldier crossed the open space before the dangerous vent-hole. Then this hazardous sport developed into a game. Every minute a man ran swiftly from one side to the other, like a boy playing baseball, kicking up the snow behind him as he ran. They had lighted big fires of dead wood at which to warm themselves, and the, figures of the runners were illumined by the flames as they passed rapidly from the camp on the right to that on the left.

      Some one shouted:

      “It’s your turn now, Maloison.”

      Maloison was a fat baker, whose corpulent person served to point many a joke among his comrades.

      He hesitated. They chaffed him. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he set off at a little, waddling gait, which shook his fat paunch and made the whole detachment laugh till they cried.

      “Bravo, bravo, Maloison!” they shouted for his encouragement.

      He had accomplished about two-thirds of his journey when a long, crimson flame shot forth from the vent-hole. A loud report followed, and the fat baker fell face forward to the ground, uttering a frightful scream. No one went to his assistance. Then

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