For a month the German vanguard had been in this village.  The French remained motionless, ten leagues away; and yet, every night, some of the Uhlans disappeared.

Of all the isolated scouts, of all those who were sent to the outposts, in groups of not more than three, not one ever returned.

They were picked up the next morning in a field or in a ditch.  Even their horses were found along the roads with their throats cut.

These murders seemed to be done by the same men, who could never be found.

The country was terrorized.  Farmers were shot on suspicion, women were imprisoned; children were frightened in order to try and obtain information.  Nothing could be ascertained.

But, one morning, Father Milon was found stretched out in the barn, with a sword gash across his face.

Two Uhlans were found dead about a mile and a half from the farm.  One of them was still holding his bloody sword in his hand.  He had fought, tried to defend himself.  A court-martial was immediately held in the open air, in front of the farm.  The old man was brought before it.

He was sixty-eight years old, small, thin, bent, with two big hands resembling the claws of a crab.  His colorless hair was sparse and thin, like the down of a young duck, allowing patches of his scalp to be seen.  The brown and wrinkled skin of his neck showed big veins which disappeared behind his jaws and came out again at the temples.  He had the reputation of being miserly and hard to deal with.

They stood him up between four soldiers, in front of the kitchen table, which had been dragged outside.  Five officers and the colonel seated themselves opposite him.

The colonel spoke in French: 

“Father Milon, since we have been here we have only had praise for you.  You have always been obliging and even attentive to us.  But to-day a terrible accusation is hanging over you, and you must clear the matter up.  How did you receive that wound on your face?”

The peasant answered nothing.

The colonel continued: 

“Your silence accuses you, Father Milon.  But I want you to answer me!  Do you understand?  Do you know who killed the two Uhlans who were found this morning near Calvaire?”

The old man answered clearly

“I did.”

The colonel, surprised, was silent for a minute, looking straight at the prisoner.  Father Milon stood impassive, with the stupid look of the peasant, his eyes lowered as though he were talking to the priest.  Just one thing betrayed an uneasy mind; he was continually swallowing his saliva, with a visible effort, as though his throat were terribly contracted.

The man’s family, his son Jean, his daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren were standing a few feet behind him, bewildered and affrighted.

The colonel went on: 

“Do you also know who killed all the scouts who have been found dead, for a month, throughout the country, every morning?”