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At the Sign of the Gray Owl

By William Freeman

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MPHATICALLY a modern battlefield is neither a beautiful nor an inspiring sight-when the battle is over; and private Jean Puichot realized as much as he staggered out of the trench over which the attacking masses had swept, walked a dozen aimless paces, and collapsed again.

A month before the place had been a wheat field, brown stubble under placid September skies. Since then it had been ploughed afresh. The gathering twilight hid much, but there was a horrible suggestiveness in every dark blotch that broke the horizon.

Puichot had been in the trenches for thirty-six hours, he and a couple of hundred others, watching the tide of battle ebb and flow. He had the vaguest ideas as to what had actually happened. He knew that he had loaded and fired his rifle almost as mechanically as the barking little Maxims worked which the British had brought up on his left; that the enemy had been beaten back again and again, and had still come on; and then

There followed a gap in his impressions, and he had come to his senses to find himself alone, under a darkening sky, with only dead men and horses for company. He had no conception as to the whereabouts of his regiment. He did not even know if it still existed. In the distance the lights of a village twinkled; they looked homelike and friendly. He reeled to his feet again, and began a slouching trot toward them.

The distance was nearly a mile, and neither then nor at any time did he understand how he accomplished the

journey. More than once it seemed to him that the lights could be no more than a will-o'-the-wisp of his own fevered brain; but presently he passed through a gate into a street, and felt cobbles beneath his feet. The lights suddenly confronted him, swooped upward in an enormous curve that reached the zenith, and were lost in black oblivion. In a word, he fainted for the second time.

He regained his senses on a stiff horsehair couch. Over him a girl was bending a full-lipped, dark-eyed brunette.

"You are better?" she asked.

Puichot nodded. His mouth still tingled with the sting of the neat spirit she had given him.

"That is good. Ma foi! but you terrified me mightily when you fell into my doorway.'

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With an effort he sat up, and realized that he was in a small parlor opening out of the public room of an inn. "What place is this ma'mselle?"

"The village of Frontillac, m'sieu. This is 'The Gray Owl,' and I am the niece of Jules Dutil, to whom it belongs. I have done my poor best to keep the business alive since he went to the war, but it has been melancholy and profitless work."

"You are French ?" he asked. The fighting had been near enough to the frontier to make it uncertain.

"Belgian, m'sieu." She spoke with sudden passion. "If you or the English had come to our help sooner"

"We did our best," said Puichot mechanically. He passed his hand over his forehead. It was caked with clay and dried blood. "If there is any place where one might wash"

She pointed to the door that led to the scullery. There was a pump there, with its spout over a big stone sink, and a basin already filled. The icecold water cleared his brain. When he went back he found bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine on the table.

"Eat and drink," said the girl brusquely. "Then, if you wish, you may go in search of your regiment."

Puichot, who was starving, sat down obediently. "What has happened?" he asked.

The girl dropped into a chair opposite. Her vivid beauty smote his senses like a blow. "What happened? Your men were outnumbered, overwhelmed, annihilated. The Uhlansbrute beasts that they are!-slew and slew. They lost very many themselves. Perhaps for that reason they killed the wounded where they found them. I heard it from one of their men who passed through the village afterwards. If you should be found here"

"I will go at once," said Puichot. He was not thinking of himself, but of the probable consequences to the girl. He rose unsteadily to his feet.

Misunderstanding him, she smiled with contemptuous pity. "You are fit for nothing but bed, m'sieu. There is a barn at the back which may serve." She took up the lamp. "Come!"

He followed her across a paved yard to an outhouse. She flung back the door for him to go in, and held the lamp high. The place was clean and dry, the straw a scented invitation to slumber.

"B'n soir, m'sieu!" she said, and left him to undress by the little light that filtered through the cobwebbed window.

He fell asleep almost instantly, to waken a couple of hours later with a raging thirst and fever. He stumbled giddily out into the moonlight. The door of the scullery was fastened on the inner side, and he was still fumbling with the handle when the window of a room above swung back.

The girl looked down. "Are you dreaming of the Germans, m'sieu ?"

"I am thirsty. I could not sleep." "Wait!" she commanded.

A bolt shot back, and she appeared, ghostlike, in a long white wrap, her hair lying in a thick plait over her shoulder. "Of all the guests I ever entertained" she grumbled. Then, after a glance at his face, "Go back to your bed, and I will bring the water."

She brought it. He drank gratefully, slept for a time, and awoke again in the clutch of semi-delirium to find her still near. She was there again when dawn broke; and Puichot, weak, but with the fever abated, made an effort to sit up.

"You are better," she said, cutting short his thanks; "but, Germans or no Germans, you cannot leave. Even an unprofitable customer must be catered for, and I have little else to do."

So throughout that day and the next he remained. A strained tendon made walking difficult, but he saw enough of the village to realize that it was practically deserted.

On the third morning the girl came to him soon after daybreak. The rattle of distant rifle-fire had already aroused him. She carried a bundle of clothing.

"M'sieu, you will surrender your uniform, and at once."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Old Lisette, who knits lace, tells me that the Uhlans have already been seen. These clothes belonged to my uncle. You must wear them, and take his place. You understand?”

Whether he understood or not made little difference, for she had gone away with his uniform before he could reply. Puichot put on the garments she had left, and followed her into the parlor.

She turned from her coffee-making to regard him critically. "Bien!" they fit well! It is fortunate that you and my uncle are of much the same figure. Not," she added impartially, "that you have my uncle's intelligence."

Puichot flushed dully. "Ma'mselle has been an angel of mercy, all that a woman could be. But always there has been a—a hostility"—

"Hostility!" she flashed, with sudden passion. "And why? Because we were told that your army, and the English, were to be the saviours of our country. My father and brother had a factory near Mons, m'sieu; and because they showed hospitality to a party of the Allies they were tortured and then shot. Your armies fell back -back-leaving our land devastated. Many explanations have been made; but a woman-a simple womanjudges from what she sees. Do you wonder that I have no love for your people ?"

"I think," said Puichot, half to himself, “that you have never yet loved any one, ma'mselle."

"It has never been worth while. My man would have to be un beau sabre, very tender, very brave, and a hundred other things! When I meet him I will perhaps give him my heart. Until then- Your coffee grows cold, m’sieu!

It was their only approach to anything like intimacy. But the fact did not prevent Jean Puichot falling very swiftly and effectively in love with her. For a day or so longer they waited, always on the qui vive for the Uhlans; and then an afternoon came when the half-witted lacemaker fled past the door with the news that they were on their way from the next village. Already the distant hoof-beats could be heard.

"What are your plans?" asked the girl, as Puichot limped toward the front-door.

"Upon such occasions as this," said Puichot seriously, "one's nerves require a sedative. Pere Bompard, three doors lower down, sells drugs, I believe?"

"Inquire for yourself," said Lucille, and turned her back upon him, her eyes hot with contempt and anger.

He slipped away, but three minutes later was back again. "The good Bompard was hiding in his cellar; consequently I was left to compound my own prescription." His tone changed. "As for you, ma'mselle, you will oblige me by retiring to the kitchen, and

there proceeding to make your face dirty and your hair untidy-in effect, transforming yourself into the least attractive woman in northern France, if that be possible."

"This is no time for compliments, even of the clumsiest," she flashed. Nevertheless, she went. And, afterwards her obedience seemed to her the most remarkable thing of that remarkable day.

The Uhlans-a lieutenant and halfa-dozen men-approached. The lieutenant rapped with his sword-hilt against the door, and then, without waiting for an answer, flung himself into the room. Puichot, equipped with a large white apron, had taken his place behind the counter, and was polishing glasses.

"Here," said the German, "give us wine the best you have."

"I am sorry, Excellency; but there is so little left”

"We've heard that tale before. If you're afraid to fetch the stuff, call your pig of a wife. I am thirsty."

"We are poor folk. You will pay us ?"

"Of a certainty. The Emperor will call in one of his Zeppelins with the money to-morrow! Quick, fool!"

Puichot, fumbling among the bottles behind him, uncorked and proffered one. The lieutenant filled a glass, swallowed a mouthful, and flung the remaider in his face.

"When will offal of your type understand that when a gentleman calls for wine he does not desire vinegar? What have you in your cellars?"

"Very little, Excellency," said Puichot, spluttering.

"Go and fetch it. And we will follow. Those who fly down into cellars have a trick of disappearing altogether. Sergeant!"

One of the men came forward. "See first if this animal has weapons."

"Up with your hands!" said the sergeant. He jerked Puichot's hands. upward, and sent a row of glasses to the floor.

"He is unarmed, Excellency."

"Good! Let him march." Puichot shuffled off in the direction of the scullery, where Lucille was clattering aimlessly among the saucepans.

"Wife!"

She started, and turned towards him with a crimsoned face.

"These gentlemen desire wine." "I-I will fetch some at once, messieurs," she said, and went down the steps which led to the little whitewashed cellar. The officer turned to the sergeant again. "Johan!"

"Herr lieutenant ?"

"I am tired of shepherding these animals. They are slow-witted and slow-moving, and they may, after all, be deceiving us. Knock the one left behind here three times on the head for every minute which passes before his scarecrow of a wife returns."

The sergeant, with a grin, dealt Puichot three blows which sent him staggering. "Lucille!" with pain and fear.

Puichot's voice shook

She appeared in the doorway, laden. "Bring them back to the parlor," commanded the lieutenant. He followed at the rear of the party, and watched while the girl uncorked the first bottle. "This is better. And the scarecrow is less repulsive than I had imagined. Her grime hides something of her beauty." He leered at her over the wine. "Give me a kiss, scarecrow, and I will risk the dirt.”

"I-I would sooner give you another bottle of wine, m'sieu."

"Except that of La Somna brand," intervened Puichot, in an anxious whisper.

The lieutenant overheard, and set down his glass, scowling. "What is that?"

"Nothing, Excellency; nothing!" "Nothing? When you have still a better wine which you have not produced!"

"There are but six bottles, Excellency. It is of a vintage for the connoisseur's palate only."

go. No; she shall remain as a hostage. And you"-the lieutenant drew his sabre "would be wise to hasten.”

Puichot moved away. The eyes of the girl followed him. There was bewilderment, and shame, and contempt in their depths.

A moment later, and Puichot stumbled back into the room again, the bottles in his arms.

"Excellency, these are all I have. I would implore you"

"Open them, dolt. And you"-he indicated the other men with a magniloquent wave of his hand-"may help yourselves."

Puichot knocked off the neck of a bottle, received a blow for his clumsiness, and was ordered to bring and fill fresh glasses. He obeyed. The girl watched him secretly, but would not meet his eyes.

"Himmel," said the lieutenant, drinking, "but this is rousing stuff!" He smashed open a second bottle, and then third.

"Excellency, I am ruined!" moaned Puichot.

"Swine such as you are lucky to escape slaughter. We will sing, and the pair of you shall dance to our singing. Listen." He bellowed the chorus of a taproom song. "Sing, wench, sing, or" The lieutenant staggered toward the girl, gripping his sabre.

She gave a choked cry of terror, and shrank back. Puichot stood motionless until the man was a couple of feet away, watching him with keen, critical eyes. Then he dealt a sudden, swinging blow which caught the protruding chin fairly. The lieutenant went down with a crash which set the glasses jangling, and lay still.

The sergeant made a movement to rise, but dropped back heavily in his seat. None of the other men stirred; their breathing had become heavy, their eyes dull and fishlike. One by one they slid forward in ungainly heaps.

The girl stood as though frozen.
"What-what does it mean?"
"The wine was drugged," said Pui-

"That shall be proved. Let the girl chot. "I got the stuff-it's laudanum

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long detour because of a swollen stream, a sinister freshet in which the bodies of men and beasts floated darkly.

Night had enwrapped them when a sudden "Halte!" broke the silence. Puichot climbed down from the cart, but in a moment returned.

"Be thankful, ma'mselle. It is a French outpost. They will care for us both until to-morrow."

"And afterwards our roads will lie apart."

"Must they?" he asked, in an unsteady voice.

"We-we have known one another so short a time, m'sieu."

“A lifetime, an eternity, maʼmselle! You are Belgian; I am French. Everything in the world may divide us; but I love you. If I go back to the wars and fight-I, who am no beau sabre, but whose very soul is yours-will you wait for me?"

"Yes," she whispered, and with brimming eyes lifted her lips to his.

THE ENDURING

Another summer now is gone

With riot gay of wind and leaf, And comes as silent as the dawn The hours of autumn brief.

On hills the crimson fires shall wane
To drifting ashes gray and cold,
And all her splendor be in vain-
A tale that has been told.

How good to know alone supreme, While seasons come and go anon With fleeting sense of trance and dream,

That love lives on and on!

ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH.

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