"Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us. That is not regulation in England--that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?" There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling. "Answer, do you hear? What are you?" "American." "Pig-dog!" shouted the gaunt officer. "So you are one of those Yankee muleteers in your uniform, and armed! It is sufficient that you are American. If it had not been for America this war would be ended! But it is not enough, apparently, that you come here with munitions and food, that you insult us at sea, that you lie about us and slander us and send your shells and cartridges to England to slay our people! No! Also you must come to insult us in your clown’s uniform and with your pistol--" The man began to choke with fury, unable to continue, except by gesture. But the jerky gestures were terribly significant: soldiers were already pushing Burley across the road toward a great oak tree; six men fell out and lined up. "M-my Government--" stammered the young fellow--but was given no opportunity to speak. Very white, the chill sweat standing on his forehead and under his eyes, he stood against the oak, lips compressed, grey eyes watching what was happening to him. Suddenly he understood it was all over. "Djack!" He turned his gaze toward Maryette, where she struggled toward him, held by two soldiers. "Maryette--Carillonnette--" His voice suddenly became steady, perfectly clear. "_Je vous aime_, Carillonnette." "Oh, Djack! Djack!" she cried in terror. He heard the orders; was aware of the levelled rifles; but his reckless greyish eyes were now fixed on her, and he began to laugh almost mischievously. "Vooz êtes tray belle," he said, "--tray, tray chick----" "Djack!" But the clang of the volley precluded any response from him except the half tender, half reckless smile that remained on his youthful face where he lay looking up at the sky with pleasant, sightless eyes, and a sunbeam touching the metal mule on his blood-wet collar. CHAPTER XVII FRIENDSHIP She tried once more to lift the big, warm, flexible body, exerting all her slender strength. It was useless. It was like attempting to lift the earth. The weight of the body frightened her. Again she sank down among the ferns under the great oak tree; once more she took his blood-smeared head on her lap, smoothing the bright, wet hair; and her tears fell slowly upon his upturned face. "My friend," she stammered, "--my kind, droll friend.... The first friend I ever had----" The gun thunder beyond Nivelle had ceased; an intense stillness reigned in the forest; only a leaf moved here and there on the aspens. A few forest flies whirled about her, but as yet no ominous green flies came--none of those jewelled harbingers of death which appear with horrible promptness and as though by magic from nowhere when anything dies in the open world.