“I contain myself,” he said firmly, clamping both great hands on his knees like thunderclaps. “No, Papa,” André grasped his arm, “do not contain yourself yet. Tell us what has happened.” “Marie,” said Mme. Gagnon, “run get some hot water and clean Papa’s cut.” Marie clattered quickly down the stairs and Mme. Gagnon went on, “Now, Pierre, you get yourself slashed and perhaps poisoned over a cow. I thought you had more sense.” The farmer stiffened. “It was _not_ about a cow! Raoul sent for me only as an excuse. Ask Victor. He also was there. At once Raoul began to scream so loud, if it were not for the guns booming they could have heard him in Ste. Mère.” “Then what--?” began Mme. Gagnon impatiently. “Then,” cried Pierre, “he began to shout charges against me.” He swept out both arms. “Against all of us.” Pierre swallowed angrily. “He accused me,” he said, “of being a collaborator of the Nazis! He accuses us all--you, Marie, André--of working hand in glove with them. It seems that only this evening he saw André, here, entering the German camp.” There it was--the black word, _collaborator_, he who helps the enemy! It meant someone hated by all Frenchmen, more, perhaps, than the enemy. “But Papa,” André cried angrily, “poor old Schmidt! He is not an enemy.” Pierre shook his head. “He is. We have only been giving him a few eggs and a little cheese because he is a tired old man. But Raoul can make it sound wrong if he wants to.” [Illustration] Mme. Gagnon nodded encouragement. She thought of the many Allied flyers this brave, shaggy man had secretly helped to escape from the Nazis at the risk of his life. And of the boy in the attic. She glanced at her son, who, so far, knew nothing about his father’s and sister’s work in the Underground. “I grew very angry when he called me a collaborator,” Pierre went on. “How could I let anyone say such a thing to me? I punched Raoul and he came back at me like a bull. We fell down, and my face struck the stone wall. The result is not pretty, perhaps?” “Why did that German captain come home with you?” André burst out. “Did he get in the fight with Raoul?” Gagnon snorted. “Not in the fight. Unfortunately he came along just as Raoul picked up a stick and started for me. Victor was yelling at both of us, and suddenly we saw the German coming. Naturally we all shut our mouths like clams. Frenchmen do not fight Frenchmen in front of the Nazis--not even Raoul.” “Perhaps there will be no more to it,” said Mme. Gagnon soothingly. “If they do not send soldiers to snoop around the house,” Pierre grunted, “we need not worry.” Marie returned, breathless, with a basin of water and clean cloths. Her father sat on the edge of the bed, repeating the story, while the cut was cleaned and gently covered with ointment. “Your face feels better, Pierre?” Mme. Gagnon asked. “Good. Now we must all sleep.”