"Dead, Monsieur," she answered, in a tone that might itself have been dead. "Quite dead," she added, dispiritedly. "My father was summoned with many others to Avricourt. When they came back the Germans marched him past our house tied to the tail of one of their horses, but would not let us speak to him; yet he turned his face so we could see a blue cross marked upon his cheek, and then my mother fainted--she was not well, Monsieur. That night they shot him." Her poor little body was beginning to shake, but he drew her closer with soothing words, while his heart was wrung by pity. For the moment he forgot what had been uppermost in his mind: to discover through her if this place lay within the German lines and how far were the Allies. She took courage from his endearments and continued, although in the same lifeless whisper: "The next day they marched my mother and other women away, Monsieur. I ran after her but was thrust back; yet she called telling me to hide the children in the cellar." "Then your mother may not be dead," he suggested hopefully. "But yes, Monsieur. I watched them for a great way along the road--there are no trees now, and I could see. Several times she fell; the last time a soldier raised his gun twice, and twice brought it down. Oh, I wanted to help her then, but they laughed and held me!" Jeb was growing beside himself at these unheard-of barbarities, but he managed to ask gently: "Why are you not in the cellar now?--listen!" The sound of iron striking stone again reached him. She understood, and answered quietly: "It is where they dig, Monsieur. They have been doing it since sundown; and it was their coming and going through the cellars that made me bring the children here, in fear of them." "But where are the children?" he asked, for no sound had come from the corner she had left. "There are three, Monsieur, in the dark behind me. Two live, but they do not know me any more. They are so young," she said apologetically, "that the things they have seen quite put out their minds--but they obey me, very nicely." "Merciful God," he gasped. "The other," her voice resumed its tone of dull despair, "was killed but a little while ago by the man who looked in. Monsieur, we were very hungry and frightened, and she was crying; but I tried--oh, how I tried--to comfort her! Then in anger he came, and--and stuck her with the long knife on his gun. Oh, Monsieur," she whispered, clinging to him in a new terror, "I was glad for the darkness!" A sob, arising from the very depths of Jeb's soul, burst from his lips. Scalding tears of rage and anguish streamed down his cheeks; and these must have touched her upturned face, for she raised a thin hand and patted him, whispering: "You are very kind, Monsieur, to weep for her." "My poor little child," he moaned, "my poor little child! Oh, what a plight they've left you in!--with only the dead, and worse than dead!"