The Flamand, thinking that she had given it up and that he was now abandoned to the Germans, groaned.

“It’s all right,” she said.  “He’s coming.”

She saw McClane holding John by the arm, and in her pain there was a sharper pang.  She had the illusion of his being dragged back unwillingly.

McClane smiled as he came to her.  He glanced at the Flamand lying heaped on his stretcher.

“He’s been too much for you, has he?”

“Too much—?  Yes.”

Instantly she saw that John had lied, and instantly she backed his lie.  She hated McClane thinking she had failed; but anything was better than his knowing the truth.

John and McClane picked up the stretcher and went on quickly.  Charlotte walked beside the Flamand with her hand on his shoulder to comfort him.  Again her pity was like love.

From the top of the village she could see the opening of the lane.  Down there was the house with the tall green door where the dead man was.  John had said he was dead.

Supposing he wasn’t?  Or supposing he was still warm and limp like the boy at Melle?  She must know; it was a thing she must know for certain, or she would never have any peace.  And when the Flamand was laid out on McClane’s table, while McClane dressed his wound, she slipped down the lane and opened the green door.

The man lay on a row of packing cases with his feet parted.  She put one hand over his heart and the other on his forehead under the lock of bloodstained hair.  He was dead:  stiff dead and cold.  His tunic and shirt had been unbuttoned to ease his last breathing.  She had a queer baffled feeling of surprise and incompleteness, as if some awful sense in her would have been satisfied if she had seen that he had been living when John had said that he was dead.  To-day would then have been linked on firmly to the other day.

John stood at the top of the lane.  He scowled at her as she came.

“What do you think you’re doing!” he said.

“I went to that house—­to see if the man was dead.”

“You’d no business to.  I told you he was dead.”

“I wanted to make sure.”

* * * * *

That evening she had just gone to her room when somebody knocked at her door.  McClane stood outside, straddling, his way when he had got something important on hand.  He asked if he might come in and speak to her for a minute.

She sat down on the edge of her bed and he sat on Gwinnie’s, elbows crooked out, hands planted on wide parted knees; he leaned forward, looking at her, his face innocent and yet astute; his thick, expressionless eyes clear now and penetrating.  He seemed to be fairly humming with activity left over from the excitement of the day.  He was always either dreamy and withdrawn, or bursting, bursting with energy, and at odd moments he would drop off suddenly to sleep with his chin doubled on his breast, recovering from his energy.  Perhaps he had just waked up now to this freshness.