Thus, without definite plan except to beam their lifeless burden to some decent burial ground, the boys set out.  They had not proceeded far along the lane that led away from the house when they heard voices.  They plodded on, and passed a group of persons whom they took to be Germans from the deep gutturals in which they spoke.  They were close to this group, too close for comfort, but passed unobserved in the gathering darkness.

For half an hour they bore the dead woman, passing houses at times, shrouded invariably in darkness.  At last they came to a town.  German soldiers were in evidence there, in numbers, but took no notice of the two bent forms bearing the stretcher.  Bob, who was leading, bumped into a man in the dark.

“Pardon,” said the man.

“Pardon, monsieur,” replied Bob at once.

This was met with a soft-voiced assurance, in French that it was of no consequence, the remark concluding with the words, “mon fils.”

“Are you the Father?” Bob blurted out in English.

“Yes,” came in low tones in return.  “I am Pere Marquee, my son.  Say no more.  You may be overheard.  Follow me.”

Around a corner, down a lane went Pere Marquee, the boys following with their strange load.  Once well clear of the main street, the Father stopped.

“Speak slowly,” he said.  “I understand your language but imperfectly, my son.”

Whereupon Bob promptly told him, in few words, of their quest.  He told him, too, that they were American aviators in imminent danger of capture.

“Bring the poor woman this way,” said the priest.  He led them to a house which he entered without knocking, and asked them to enter.  They took the dead woman into a room occupied by two old ladies, and set down their load as Pere Marquee hurriedly told the short story he had heard from Bob.

Dicky was nearest to the priest as he finished speaking and turned to the boys.  The old man gave the young one a searching scrutiny, up to that time Dicky had not spoken.

“You, too, are American?” he asked, as if doubtful that so perfect a disguise could have been so hurriedly assumed.

Dicky’s answer was short, and made in a tone and with an accent that made the good Father look still more sharply into the boy’s eyes.

“No one would dream it,” he murmured.  “You are very like the poor dead woman’s son—–­so like that the resemblance is startling.  It is no doubt the clothes that make me note it.”

“Not altogether,” interposed one of the old ladies.  “His voice is strangely like that of Franois.  I know, for Francois frequently worked here for us until they took him away.  If the American would limp as Franois limped, most folk would take him for Franois, surely.”

Franois, it was explained, had been hurt when a boy of twelve, and while not seriously crippled, always walked with a slight limp in the right leg.