“Did I not tell you the chassepots were not found?  And why?  Because too many knew where they were hidden.  Because out of that many I feared there might be one to betray.  There is always a Judas.  So I got one man whom I knew, and he dug them up and hid them afresh.”

“Where, father?”

The question was put with a feverish eagerness—­it seemed to the cure with an eagerness too feverish.  He drew his hand, his whole body away.

“You have matches?  Light one!” he said, in a startled voice.

“But the window—!”

“Light one!”

Every moment of time was now of value.  Fevrier took the risk and lit the match, shading it from the window so far as he could with his hand.

“That will do.”

Fevrier blew out the light.  The cure had seen him, his uniform and his features.  He, too, had seen the cure, had noticed his thin emaciated face, and the eyes staring out of it feverishly bright and preternaturally large.

“Shall I tell you your malady, father?” he said gently.  “It is starvation.”

“What will you, my son?  I am alone.  There is not a crust from one end of Vaudere to the other.  You cannot help me.  Help France!  Go to the church, stand with your back to the door, turn left, and advance straight to the churchyard wall.  You will find a new grave there, the rifles in the grave.  Quick!  There is a spade in the tower.  Quick!  The rifles are wrapped from the damp, the cartridges too.  Quick!  Quick!”

Fevrier hurried downstairs, roused three of his soldiers, bade one of them go from house to house and bring the soldiers in silence to the churchyard, and with the others he went thither himself.  In groups of two and three the men crept through the street, and gathered about the grave.  It was already open.  The spade was driven hard and quick, deeper and deeper, and at last rang upon metal.  There were seventy chassepots, complete with bayonets and ammunition.  Fifty-one were handed out, the remaining nineteen were hastily covered in again.  Fevrier was immeasurably cheered to notice his men clutch at their weapons and fondle them, hold them to their shoulders taking aim, and work the breech-blocks.

“It is like meeting old friends, is it not, my children, or rather new sweethearts?” said he.  “Come!  The Prussians may advance from the Brasserie at Lanvallier, from Servigny, from Montay, or from Noisseville, straight down the hill.  The last direction is the most likely, but we must make no mistake.  Ten men will watch on the Lanvallier road, ten on the Servigny, ten on the Montay, twenty will follow me.  March!”

An hour ago Lieutenant Fevrier was in command of fifty men who slouched along with their hands in their pockets, robbed even of self-respect.  Now he had fifty armed and disciplined soldiers, men alert and inspired.  So much difference a chassepot apiece had made.  Lieutenant Fevrier was moved to the conception of another plan; and to prepare the way for its execution, he left his twenty men in a house at the Prussian end of Vaudere, and himself crept in among the vines and up the hill.