"We are peaceful peasants here!" said a sullen voice, with both terror and hate in the tone. "Sh! Pierre!" said the hunchback, "we are good Belgians, like yourselves. Let us in quickly." Surprised and unwillingly the peasant opened the door. "It is the circus boy!" he exclaimed. Croquier wasted no time in greetings. "We must cross the river," he said. "I have information of value to the French. You have a boat?" "I did have," was the answer, "but the Germans took it to-day." "Are they near here?" "You can see the light of their fires." "The river is guarded, I suppose?" "Every foot of it." "Yet we must cross." "Swim, then," responded the peasant, laconically. "Swim, carrying this?" retorted the hunchback, holding up the iron cage, and showing the "captive Kaiser," while, in a few words, he described the omen of victory. The peasant nodded his head in evident appreciation of the symbol. "The Germans must not be allowed to get it," he said, obviously more interested in the fate of the bird than of his friend. "But there are three men guarding the boat." "Only three," said Croquier significantly; "there are three of us." Horace shrank back as the meaning of the words became clear. The hunchback looked at him. "Remember Deschamps," he said. "Remember the curé, remember little Jacques, and remember Mme. Maubin!" Horace pulled himself together. "There are three of us," he agreed. The peasant had not spoken but, from a hiding-place in the frame of the bed, he pulled out a long knife and offered it to Croquier. "Keep it, you," said the hunchback; "I have my hands." "And the boy?" asked the peasant. "I've a pistol I took from a dead German near Liége," the boy answered, showing it. "It's loaded." "Too much noise," said the peasant, shaking his head. "It's all I can do," protested the boy. "I haven't Croquier's grip, and somehow, I couldn't use a knife. It's too much like murder." "And you?" queried the hunchback, turning to his friend. "You dare? You are not afraid?" "Hear you!" the peasant answered. "My brother-in-law lives in a mining village. There was a battle near by, the day before yesterday. They made him march in front of the troops and he was killed by a French bullet. "A wounded French sergeant dragged himself to the house. My sister hid him. Soon after, a German officer came. He asked for food. When my sister commenced to get it ready, they complained that she was slow. He struck her. He behaved like a brute and--" "Well?" queried Croquier, as the man paused. "The wounded sergeant," the peasant continued, "drew his pistol and shot the German. "Emile, my nephew, was there. The dying Frenchman asked for water. The boy went to the well and brought some. When he returned, other Germans were in the house. An officer asked him for the water. He answered, politely enough: "'In a minute, sir,' and gave a drink first to the wounded man."