His mother was roused again by the drone of plane engines coming in high overhead. Their lofty beating made the air tremble. Antiaircraft guns in near-by Ste. Mère Église began to boom. Their hollow _wumpf, wumpf_, added to the din of the sirens. In a slight lull, Mme. Gagnon asked, “Is your father home? I do not like him to be away when there is an air raid.” André shook his head and raised his voice above the racket. “He’s out with Victor. Marie says Raoul Cotein is trying to stir up trouble again.” He wanted his mother to think of something other than the air raid, so he laughed and added, “Marie says Raoul is a weasel.” Raoul Cotein’s mischief-making was a village joke. Mme. Gagnon sighed. “I wish your father would come home,” she said. “The bombing might be bad.” “Don’t worry,” André said wisely. “These are English planes. The Americans only come in the daytime. You know, Maman, there aren’t any big guns and bridges and war factories close to us here.” But bombs were dropping, though at a distance. Several minutes later, the coastal guns were still firing, but the sound of the engines had begun to die away. “Listen,” said Mme. Gagnon in a relieved voice. “You were right, André, they dropped no bombs on us.” André heard his sister’s footsteps on the stairs. Then he thought he heard the creak of the attic door. Presently she came bustling into the room, carrying a small tray with a pot of chocolate and a cup. Cheerfully, she said, “There, Maman, they’ve gone. Let’s hope we get no more planes tonight. Here,” pouring the chocolate, “drink this and try to get back to sleep.” Her dark skirts swished around her knees as she fluffed up her mother’s pillows and tucked in the coverlet. Downstairs the front door opened and they heard Pierre Gagnon calling, “Marie!” Then someone spoke in another voice. “Shh-h,” whispered Marie. “There is someone with Papa.” Her father was saying loudly, “Yes, Herr Kapitan, I’m all right. No, no, it is not necessary for you to come in.” Before Marie and André reached the head of the stairs, the outside door was slammed, bolted, and the stranger had gone. The light from the hall lamp fell on their father as he turned to face the stairs. Across one of his cheeks stretched a deep red gash. CHAPTER TWO _House-to-House Search_ As the light fell across the wound on her father’s face Marie cried out sharply. From the bedroom Mme. Gagnon called, “Marie, what’s wrong?” André ran back to her side. “Papa’s hurt,” he said, and then added hastily, “but not badly.” “But there were no bombs,” Mme. Gagnon exclaimed. Pierre himself had lunged up the stairs and now burst into the bedroom sputtering, “Don’t excite yourself, Maman. All is well. No harm is done. That _cochon_!” “Ah,” his wife cried. “So, it _was_ Raoul Cotein!” “Who else but that son of Satan?” Gagnon’s eyes snapped fiercely. He was red and breathing furiously, and flung himself into a chair beside the bed.