"I need not, need I?" she said. "There is no danger of it.... And yet, this enquiry.... If you were compelled to confess?..." "Oh, Suzanne, how can you think it?" Their eyes mingled fondly, their hands had not parted. Philippe would have liked to speak affectionate words and especially to say how much he hoped that she would be happy. But no words rose to his lips save words of love; and he would not.... She gave a smile. A tear shone at the tip of her lashes. She stammered: "I love you.... I shall always love you." Then she released her hand. Marthe, who had turned back, saw them standing together, motionless. * * * When they emerged at the corner of the Albern Path, they saw a group of journalists and sightseers gathered behind half-a-dozen gendarmes. The whole road was thus guarded, as far as the Saint-Elophe rise. And, on the right, German gendarmes stood posted at intervals. They reached the Butte. The Butte is a large round clearing, on almost level ground, surrounded by a circle of ancestral trees arranged like the colonnade of a temple. The road, a neutral zone, seven feet wide, runs through the middle. On the west, the French frontier-post, in plain black cast-iron and bearing a slab with directions, like a sign-post. On the east, the German post, in wood painted with a black and white spiral and surmounted by an escutcheon with the words, "_Deutsches Reich_." Two military tents had been pitched for the double enquiry and were separated by a space of fifty or sixty yards. Above each waved the flag of its respective country. A soldier was on guard outside either tent: a Prussian infantryman, helmet on head, shin-strap buckled; an Alpine rifleman, bonneted and gaitered. Each stood with his rifle at the order. Not far from them, on either side of the clearing, were two little camps pitched among the trees: French soldiers, German soldiers. And the officers formed two groups. French and German horizons showed in the mist between the branches. "You see, Marthe, you see," whispered Philippe, whose heart was gripped with emotion. "Isn't it terrible?" "Yes, yes," she said. But a young man came towards them, carrying under his arm a portfolio bulging with papers: "M. Philippe Morestal, I believe? I am M. de Trebons, attached to the department of the under-secretary of state. M. Le Corbier is talking to M. Morestal your father and begs that you will be good enough to wait." He took him, with Marthe and Suzanne, to the French camp, where they found, seated on a bench, Farmer Saboureux and Old Poussiere, who had likewise been summoned as witnesses. From there, they commanded the whole circus of the Butte. "How pale you look, Philippe!" said Marthe. "Are you ill?" "No," he said. "Please don't worry me." Half an hour passed. Then the canvas fly that closed the German tent was lifted and a number of persons came out. Suzanne gave a stifled cry: