André took the packet with a puzzled “Thank you,” and stared at his suddenly subdued neighbor. “W-what happened to you?” he asked. Raoul looked down at his arm bandage. “You mean this?” he replied. “_Tiens_, André. Do you know, I found I was almost the only man in this village who was not of the Resistance? I have merely been remedying the situation.” “Do you know now my father is a Maquis and not a collaborationist?” André demanded, and Raoul nodded. “I have discovered so. I--” If he had meant to apologize further for his past bad behavior, his words were lost. A shell overshot the house and everyone ran for cover. When André slid out from his hiding place, Raoul was gone. For a moment the boy stood alone. “Well, now, what is my duty?” he considered. “Victor? No.... Patchou.” He went to the kitchen, gave the dog food and water, and hastily ate Raoul’s sandwiches. Meanwhile Patchou gamboled for a few minutes around the room. André thought that he had better go to Lescots’ and tell the old man, once and for all, how foolish his plan was. Even Victor would see that now. * * * * * Victor stood near his barnyard gates crossly watching the distant scene. A broad, fawn-colored Percheron stood harnessed beside Victor. A shotgun was strapped to the horse’s back-pad alongside the looped-up traces. André slipped over the wall and whistled. At the sound, Victor jumped, steadied his glasses, and chattered, “Oh, it’s you at last. La Fumée is beside herself with impatience.” André interrupted firmly. “I came only to tell you the thought of going toward the coast is an insanity. The fighting has grown intense.” Victor fanned out his hands. “Then my cart ... you think it is a trifle to be ignored....” His eyes snapped. “Which _I have paid for_, please recall!” “But Victor--” André sighed. “From infancy I have indulged you, because of my love....” Victor chided gently. He patted the mare’s smooth flank and climbed up on her back. “There will be many Americans down there, I presume. No doubt they will help an old man.” “Victor, you know I can’t let you go alone,” André exploded. “Pull me up behind you.” A few moments later, André, clinging to Victor’s ribs, was mounted and jogging around a corner of the farm wall. CHAPTER EIGHT _Prisoners_ As a very small boy, riding on the broad platform of La Fumée’s back had been André’s delight. But La Fumée had not then quivered at the whine and roar of shells, or the nerve-shaking rattle of machine guns. And the fields had not been spiked with wicked barbed-wire glider traps. “Now, we zigzag,” explained Victor as he turned the mare into a hedge-lined path at the next field. It was necessary to round barns and ponds and areas marked in German: “_Achtung--Minen!_” “Beware--Mines!” to avoid even the smaller country roads.