THE HOME FIRE NO LONGER BURNS
"That's the first time I was everr scarred by a cow," said Archer, his
buoyant spirit fully revived, "but when I hearrd those footsteps overr
my head, _go-od night_! It's good you happened to think about looking
for footprints, hey?"
"I didn't _happen_ to," said Tom. "I always do. Same as you never forget
to get a souvenir," he added soberly.
"I'd like to get a sooveneerr from that cow, hey? _You_ needn't talk; if
it hadn't been for that wire, where'd we be now? Sooveneerrs arre all
right. But I admit you've got to have ideas to go with 'em."
"Thanks," said Tom.
"Keep the change," said Archer jubilantly. "Believe me, I don't carre
what becomes of me as long as I'm above ground--on terra cotta----"
"We've got to get away from here before daylight, so come on,"
interrupted Tom.
"Are we going up to the house?"
"What else can we do?"
The explanation of those appalling footfalls by no means explained the
failure of Florette to keep her promise, and the fugitives started along
the path which led to the house.
They walked very cautiously, Tom scrutinizing the earth-covered planking
for any sign of recent passing. The door of the stone kitchen stood
open, which surprised them, and they stole quietly inside. A lamp stood
upon the table, but there was no sign of human presence.
Tom led the way on tiptoe through the passage where they had passed
before, and into the main room where another lamp revealed a ghastly
sight. The heavy shutters were closed and barred, just as Florette had
closed them when she had brought the boys into the room. Upon the floor
lay old Pierre, quite dead, with a cruel wound, as from some blunt
instrument, upon his forehead. His whitish gray hair, which had made him
look so noble and benignant, was stained with his own blood. Blood lay
in a pool about his fine old head, and the old coat which he wore had
been torn from him, showing the stump of the arm which he had so long
ago given to his beloved France.
Near him lay sprawled upon the floor a soldier in a gray uniform, also
dead. A little bullet wound in his temple told the tale. Beside him was
a black helmet with heavy brass chin gear. Archer picked it up with
trembling hands. Across its front was a motto:
"_Mitt Gott--und Vaterland_."
The middle of it was obscured by the flaring German coat-of-arms. A
pistol lay midway between the two bodies and part of an old engraved
motto was still visible on that. Tom could make out the name Napoleon.
"What d'you s'pose happened?" whispered Archer, aghast.
Tom shook his head. "Come on," said he. "Let's look for the others."
Taking the lamp, he led the way silently through the other rooms. On a
couch in one of these was laid a soldier's uniform and a loose paper
upon the floor showed that it had but lately been unwrapped. There was
no sign of Florette or her mother, and Tom felt somewhat relieved at
this, for he had feared to find them dead also.
"What d'you think it means?" Archer asked again, as they returned to the
room of death.
"I suppose they came for her just like she said," Tom answered in a low
tone. "Her father must have shot the soldier, and probably whoever
killed the old man took her and her mother away."
He looked down at the white, staring face of old Pierre and thought of
how the old soldier had risen from his seat and had stood waiting with
his fine military air at the moment of his own arrival at the shadowed
and stricken home. He remembered how the old man had waited eagerly for
his daughter to translate his and Archer's talk and of his humiliation
at the shabby hospitality he must offer them. He took the helmet, a
grim-looking thing, from the table where Archer had laid it, and read
again, "Mitt Gott----"
It seemed to Tom that this was all wrong--that God must surely be on the
side of old Pierre, no matter what had happened.
"Do you know what I think?" he said simply. "I think it was just the way
I said--and like she said. They came to get her and maybe they didn't
treat her just right, and her father hit one of them. Or maybe he shot
him first off. Anyway, I think that soldier suit must be the one Frenchy
had to wear, 'cause he told me that the boys in Alsace had to drill even
before they got out of school. I guess she was going to bring it to us
so one of us could wear it.... We got to feel sorry for her, that's one
sure thing."
It was Tom's simple, blunt way of expressing the sympathy which surged
up in his heart.
"I liked her; she treated us fine," said Archer.
For a few seconds Tom did not answer; then he said in his old stolid
way, "I don't know where they took her or what they'll make her do, but
anybody could see she didn't have any muscle. Whenever I think of her
I'll fight harder, that's one sure thing."
For a few moments he could hardly command himself as he contemplated
this tragic end of the broken home. Florette, whom he had seen but
yesterday, had been taken away--away from her home, probably from her
beloved Alsace, to enforced labor for the Teuton tyrant. He recalled her
slender form as she hurried through the darkness ahead of them, her
gentle apology for their poor reception, her wistful memories of her
brother as she showed them their hiding-place, her touching grief and
apprehension as she stood talking with him under the trellis....
And now she was gone and awful thoughts of her peril and suffering
welled up in Tom's mind.
He looked at the stark figure and white, staring face of old Pierre and
thought of the impetuous embrace the old man had given him. He thought
of his friend, Frenchy. And the mother--where was she? Good people, kind
people; trying in the menacing shadow of the detestable Teuton beast to
keep their flickering home fire burning. And this was the end of it.
Most of all, he thought of Florette and her wistful, fearful look
haunted him. "_Maybe for ze great Krupps_"--the phrase lingered in his
mind and he stood there appalled at the realization of this awful,
unexplained thing which had happened.
Then Tom Slade did something which his scout training had taught him to
do, while Archer, tremulous and unstrung, stood awkwardly by, watching.
He knelt down over the lifeless form of the old man and straightened the
prostrate figure so that it lay becomingly and decently upon the hard
floor. He bent the one arm and laid it across the breast in the usual
posture of dignity and peace. He took the threadbare covering from the
old melodeon and placed it over the face. So that the last service for
old Pierre Leteur was performed by an American boy; and at least the
ashes of the home fire were left in order by a scout from far across the
seas.
"It's part of first aid," explained Tom quietly, as he rose; "I learned
how at Temple Camp."
Archer said nothing.
"When a scout from Maryland died up there, I saw how they did it."
"You got to thank the scouts for a lot," said Archer; "forr trackin' an'
trailin'----"
"'Tain't on account of them," said Tom, his voice breaking a little,
"it's on account of her----"
And he kneeled again to arrange the corner of the cloth more neatly over
the wrinkled, wounded face....