The officer shot him instantly in the chest.  He fell and lay still and the officer bent over him.  In that moment Henri stabbed him with a knife in his left hand.  Men were coming from every direction, but he got away—­he did not clearly remember how.  And at dawn he fell into the Belgian farmhouse, apparently dying.

Jean’s story, on the other hand, was given early and with no hesitation.  He had crossed the border at Holland in civilian clothes, by the simple expedient of bribing a sentry.  He had got, with little difficulty, to the farmhouse, and found Henri, now recovering but very weak; he was lying hidden in a garret, and he was suffering from hunger and lack of medical attention.  In a wagon full of market stuff, Henri hidden in the bed of it, they had got to the border again.  And there Jean had, it seemed, stabbed the sentry he had bribed before and driven on to neutral soil.

Not an unusual story, that of Henri and Jean.  The journey across Belgium in the springless farm wagon was the worst.  They had had to take roundabout lanes, avoiding the main highways.  Fortunately, always at night there were friendly houses, kind hands to lift Henri into warm fire-lighted interiors.  Many messages they had brought back, some of cheer, but too often of tragedy, from the small farmsteads of Belgium.

Then finally had been Holland, and the chartering of a boat—­and at last—­“Here we are, and here we are, and here we are again,” sang Henri, chopping at his cotton and making a great show of cheerfulness before Sara Lee.

But with Jean sometimes he showed the black depression beneath.  He would never be a man again.  He was done for.  He gained strength so slowly that he believed he was not gaining at all.  He was not happy, and the unhappy mend slowly.

After the time he had asked Jean to take away Harvey’s photograph he did not recur to the subject, but he did not need to.  Jean knew, perhaps even better than Henri himself, that the boy was recklessly, hopelessly, not quite rationally in love with the American girl.

Also Henri was fretting about his work.  Sometimes at night, following Henri’s instructions, Jean wandered quietly along roads and paths that paralleled the Front.  At such times his eyes were turned, not toward the trenches, but toward that flat country which lay behind, still dotted at that time with groves of trees, with canals overhung with pollard willows, and with here and there a farmhouse that at night took on in the starlight the appearance of being whole again.

Singularly white and peaceful were those small steadings of Belgium in the night hours—­until cruel dawn showed them for what they were—­ skeletons of dead homes, clothed only at night with wraithlike roofs and chimneys; ghosts of houses, appearing between midnight and cock crow.

Jean had not Henri’s eyes nor his recklessness nor his speed, for that matter.  Now and then he saw the small appearing and disappearing lights on some small rise.  He would reach the spot, with such shelter as possible, to find only a sugar-beet field, neglected and unplowed.