"He looks like a Hun to me," remarked Glenn, bluntly. "He has his papers," said the girl. Glenn shrugged. "With his little pink eyes of a pig and his whitish hair and eyebrows--well, maybe they make ’em like that in Belgium." "Papers," added Smith, "_can_ be swiped." The girl shook her head: "He’s an invalid student from Ypres. He looks quite ill, I think." "He looks the lunger, all right. But Huns have it, too. What does he do--wander about town at will?" "He works for us, monsieur. Your suspicions are harsh. Karl is quite harmless, poor boy." "What does he do after hours?" demanded Sticky Smith, watching the manœuvres of the sickly blond youth and the wheelbarrow. "Monsieur Smith, if you knew how innocent is his pastime!" she exclaimed, laughing. "He collects and studies moths and butterflies. Is there, if you please, a mania more harmless in the world?... And now I must return to my work, messieurs." As the two muleteers strode clanking away toward the canal in the meadow, the blond youth turned his head and looked after them out of eyes which were naturally pale and small, and which, as he watched the two Americans, seemed to grow paler and smaller yet. That afternoon old Courtray, swathed in a shawl, sat on the mossy doorstep and fished among the water weeds of the river. The sun was low; work in the garden had ended. Maryette had gone up into her belfry to play the sunset hymn on the noble old carillon. Through the sunset sky the lovely bell-notes floated far and wide, exquisitely chaste and aloof as the high-showering ecstasy of a skylark. As always the little village looked upward and listened, pausing in its humble duties as long as their little bell-mistress remained in her tower. After the hymn she played "Myn hart is vol verlangen" and "Het Lied der Vlamingen," and ended with the delicate, bewitching little folk-song, "Myn Vryer," by Hasselt. Then in the red glow of the setting sun the girl laid aside her wooden gloves, rose from the ancient keyboard, wound up the drum, and, her duty done for the evening, came down out of the tower among the transparent evening shadows of the tree-lined village street. The sun hung over Nivelle hills, which had turned to amethyst. Sunbeams laced the little river in a red net through which old Courtray’s quill stemmed the ripples. He still clutched his fishing pole, but his eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest. Maryette came silently into the garden and looked at her father--looked at the blond Karl seated on the river wall beside the dozing angler. The blond youth had a box on his knees into which he was intently peering. The girl came to the river wall and seated herself at her father’s feet. The Belgian refugee student had already risen to attention, his heels together, but Maryette signed him to be seated again. "What have you found now, Karl?" she inquired in a cautiously modulated voice.