"I’m very glad to be of any use to you," he said pleasantly, laying the roll on the table. Marie-Josephine, on her low chair by the hearth, sat listening to every word as though she had understood. The expression in her faded eyes varied constantly; solicitude, perplexity, vague uneasiness, a recurrent glimmer of suspicion were succeeded always by wistful tenderness when her gaze returned to Wayland and rested on his youthful face and figure with a pride forever new. Once she spoke in mixed French and Breton: "Is the stranger English, Monsieur Jacques, _mon chéri_?" "I do not doubt it, Marie-Josephine. Do you?" "Why dost thou believe him to be English?" "He has the tricks of speech. Also his accent is of an English university. There is no mistaking it." "Are not young Huns sometimes instructed in the universities of England?" "Yes.... But----" "_Gar à nous, mon p’tit_, Jacques. In Finistère a stranger is a suspect. Since earliest times they have done us harm in Finistère. The strangers--God knows what centuries of evil they have wrought." "No fear," he said, reassuringly, and turned again to the airman, who had now satisfied his hunger and had already risen to gather up the roll of canvas, the hammer, nails, and shellac. "Thanks awfully, old chap!" he said cordially. "I’ll take these articles, if I may. It’s very good of you ... I’m in a tearing hurry----" "Won’t your pilot come over and eat a bit?" "I’ll take him this bread and meat, if I may. Many thanks." He held out his heavily gloved hand with a friendly smile, nodded to Marie-Josephine. And as he hurriedly turned to go, the ancient carving on the high-backed chair caught him between the buttons of his leather coat, tearing it wide open over the breast. And Wayland saw the ribbon of the Iron Cross there fastened to a sea-grey tunic. There was a second’s frightful silence. "What’s that you wear?" said Wayland hoarsely. "Stop! Stand where you----" "Halt! Don’t touch that shotgun!" cried the airman sharply. But Wayland already had it in his hands, and the airman fired twice at him where he stood--steadied the automatic to shoot again, but held his fire, seeing it would not be necessary. Besides, he did not care to shoot the old woman unless military precaution made it advisable; and she was on her knees, her withered arms upflung, shielding the prostrate body with her own. "You Yankee fool," he snapped out harshly--"it is your own fault, not mine!... Like the rest of your imbecile nation you poke your nose where it has no business! And I--" He ceased speaking, realizing that his words remained unheard.