"That was sure to bring ruin," said the hunchback. "A German always thinks he is more important than any one else." "The commanding officer immediately ordered Emile shot and his eyes were bandaged. Then the officer changed his mind. He took off the bandage and handed the boy a gun. [Illustration: BOY HEROES OF THE FRONT. _Courtesy of "Le Miroir."_ A Servian lad, sharpshooter, 12 years old, who fought gallantly at Belgrade. _Courtesy of "J'ai Vu."_ "Petit Jean" of the Zouaves, who won revenge against the Germans who burned his French home. _Courtesy of "Ill. London News."_ A Russian lad, 14 years old, full member of a gun crew, which saw much action.] "'Shoot the Frenchman, you!' he said. 'That will make you a good German.' "The boy took the gun, pointed it at the French sergeant, then wheeled suddenly and fired point-blank at the German commander, who fell dead. So," said the peasant slowly, "they first tortured my nephew and then killed him. After that they set fire to the house and burned alive the wounded man inside. My sister escaped from the burning house and told me the story last night."[11] "And she?" "She went mad early this morning and drowned herself in the river. Do you think I would let fear stop me from revenge?" No more was said. They filed out of the farmhouse, creeping through the forest down the steep slopes to the river below. At a tiny landing-stage two German soldiers were standing. The hunchback held up two fingers and the boy's spirits rose with relief at the thought that he would not be compelled to take part in a cold-blooded though necessary slaughter. "Take the bird," whispered Croquier to him, "and, whatever happens, see that the Germans do not get it. If you are about to be caught, throw the cage in the river. Its weight will sink it." "I will," said the boy. He would have said more, as his fingers closed upon the iron ring, but his companions had slipped off into the darkness. The few minutes of waiting that followed seemed like hours. Far, far away, there was a faint sound of cannonading, which, although the boy did not know it, was the advance-guard knocking at the gates of Namur. It rose and fell on the night breeze above the indistinguishable murmur around him, born of the presence of hundreds of thousands of men encamped on both sides of the river, of the rattle of harness, of the hum of motor-vehicles and of the tramp of feet. A dull, angry red flickered spasmodically in the sky, here and there, the reflections of burning villages below.