"I meant to strangle it, then and there," said Horace, when telling the story afterwards, "but when I got hold of the neck, I found I couldn't choke it because of the layers of cloth. All my squeezing didn't seem to do any good. Then I thought that it might be more fun if I brought him in alive, but it was a tussle!" The struggle lasted long and, before the bird was mastered, its talons had scored the boy's thigh. None the less, he succeeded in pinning the fierce beak and talons into the coat and tying the sleeves together in such wise that the bird was tightly nipped. Thus triumphant, he set out with his capture. It was not long until he reached the Tilff road and turned off towards his home. The flickering light from the flaming streaks of the guns of Fort Embourg gave the outlines of the village houses a queer look of unreality and Horace received a sudden shock. How long was it--how many days, how many weeks--since he had passed by the school in that walk to Liége in the twilight? Not, surely not the same day, only three hours before! Three hours! Yes, three hours of experience, more than three years of untroubled boyhood life. He had gone out of Beaufays seeking, as a matter of excitement, to see something of the war. He returned, one who had been under fire, a bearer of war tidings, ready to fight for Belgium. He had learned, besides, the soldier's fatalism which keeps him from flinching because of the belief that he will not be shot as long as he has his work to do. From the task of notifying the parents of Deschamps he shrank. If only his father were there! Horace was proud of his father, regarding him as the ideal of what he would like to be himself. It was one of his greatest sorrows that his father spent only half his time in Belgium, where he represented the interests of certain American manufacturers. He was expected back on the first of September, but that was nearly a month away. On his way through the village, Horace met Croquier, the hunchback. He told his news. "And what's queer about the bird," he said, "is that it seems to have one wing shorter than the other." Croquier stopped dead. "Is it the left wing?" Horace thought for a moment. "Yes," he answered, "I think it is." "Show!" Cautiously the boy loosened his grip, and, in the light from the guns, displayed his prize. The eyes of the hunchback burned. He caught the lad eagerly by the arm. "But you must tell Mme. Maubin at once!" he cried. "At once!" "Why?" protested Horace, hanging back. "She must know. She is the wise woman!" the other spluttered in his excitement. "She sees unseen things. She hears the voices of the future! Come! Come quickly!" He half-led, half-dragged the boy on. The hunchback's excitement was infectious. Besides, Horace remembered that he had a message to give.