“The flag of the Patrie,” said Fevrier, and with one accord the deserters uncovered.

The match burned down to Fevrier’s fingers, he dropped it and trod upon it and there was a moment’s absolute stillness.  Then in the darkness a ringing voice leapt out.

“Vive la France!”

It was not the lieutenant’s voice, but the voice of a peasant from the south of the Loire, one of the deserters.

“Ah, but that is fine, that cry,” said Fevrier.

He could have embraced that private on both cheeks.  There was love in that cry, pain as well—­it could not be otherwise—­but above all a very passion of confidence.

“Again!” said Fevrier; and this time all his men took it up, shouting it out, exultantly.  The little ruined shop, in itself a contradiction of the cry, rang out and clattered with the noise until it seemed to Fevrier that it must surely pierce across the country into Metz and pluck the Mareschal in his headquarters from his diffidence.  But they were only fifty deserters in a deserted village, lost in the darkness, and more likely to be overheard by the Prussian sentries than by any of their own blood.

It was Fevrier who first saw the danger of their ebullition.  He cut it short by ordering them to seek quarters where they could sleep until daybreak.  For himself, he thrust the little toy flag in his breast and walked forward to the larger house at the end of the village beneath the vine-hill; and as he walked, again the smell of paraffin was forced upon his nostrils.

He walked more slowly.  That odour of paraffin began to seem remarkable.  The looting of the village had not occurred to-day, for there had been thick dust about the general shop.  But the paraffin had surely been freshly spilt, or the odour would have evaporated.

Lieutenant Fevrier walked on thinking this over.  He found the broken door of his house, and still thinking it over, mounted the stairs.  There was a door fronting the stairs.  He felt for the handle and opened it, and from a corner of the room a voice challenged him in German.

Fevrier was fairly startled.  There were Germans in the village after all.  He explained to himself now the smell of paraffin.  Meanwhile he did not answer; neither did he move; neither did he hear any movement.  He had forgotten for the moment that he was a deserter, and he stood holding his breath and listening.  There was a tiny window opposite to the door, but it only declared itself a window, it gave no light.  And illusions came to Lieutenant Fevrier, such as will come to the bravest man so long as he listens hard enough in the dark—­illusions of stealthy footsteps on the floor, of hands scraping and feeling along the walls, of a man’s breathing upon his neck, of many infinitesimal noises and movements close by.

The challenge was repeated and Fevrier remembered his orders.

“I am Lieutenant Fevrier of Montaudon’s division.”