“Bon soir, monsieur!” It was the voice of the sentry, and came from behind a barricade of hurdles, thatched with straw, on the crest of the road over the downs.  His bayonet gleamed like a silver needle in the moonlight, and he was alone in his vigil.  No shepherds watched their flocks by night, neither did angels sing peace on earth and goodwill towards men.  Only the cold austerity of the stars kept him company.  Perhaps the first Christmas Eve was just such a starry night as this; the same stars may have looked down upon a manger in Bethlehem.  But on the brow of the hill was one of those wayside shrines which symbolise the anguish of the Cross, and these very stars may have looked down upon the hill of Calvary.

IV

THE FRONT AGAIN

XXIII

THE COMING OF THE HUN

The maire sat in his parlour at the Hotel de Ville dictating to his secretary.  He was a stout little man with a firm mouth, an indomitable chin, and quizzical eyes.  His face would at any time have been remarkable; for a French provincial it was notable in being clean-shaven.  Most Frenchmen of the middle class wear beards of an Assyrian luxuriance, which to a casual glance suggest stage properties rather than the work of Nature.  The maire was leaning back in his chair, his elbows resting upon its arms and his hands extended in front of him, the thumb and finger-tips of one hand poised to meet those of the other as though he were contemplating the fifth proposition in Euclid.  It was a characteristic attitude; an observer would have said it indicated a temperament at once patient and precise.  He was dictating a note to the commissaire de police, warning the inhabitants to conduct themselves “paisiblement” in the event of a German occupation, an event which was hourly expected.  Much might depend upon that proclamation; a word too little or too much and Heaven alone knew what innuendo a German Commandant might discover in it.  Perhaps the maire was also not indifferent to the question of style; he prided himself on his French; he had in his youth won a prize at the Lycee for composition, and he contributed occasional papers to the journal of the Societe de l’Histoire de France on the antiquities of his department.  Most Frenchmen are born purists in style, and the maire lingered over his words.

“Continuez, Henri,” he said with a glance at the clerk. “Le Maire, assiste de son adjoint et de ses conseillers municipaux et de delegues de quartier, sera en permanence a l’hotel de Ville pour assurer—­” There was a kick at the door and a tall loutish man in the uniform of a German officer entered, followed by two grey-coated soldiers.  The officer neither bowed nor saluted, but merely glared with an intimidating frown.  The maire’s clerk sat in an atrophy of fear, unable to move a muscle.  The officer advanced