The Braconnier

The peasant's eyes fell on Lorraine, leaning against a tree, her blanched face half hidden under the masses of her hair. "Oho!" he said--"a woman!"

Without the least hesitation he came quickly across the road and close up to Jack.

"Thought you might be one of those German spies," he said. "Is the lady ill? Coeur Dieu! but she is white! Monsieur, what has happened? I am Brocard--Jean Brocard; they know me here in the forest--"

"Eh!" broke in Jack--"you say you are Brocard the poacher?"

"Hey! That's it--Brocard, braconnier--at your service. And you are the young nephew of the Vicomte de Morteyn, and that is the little châtelaine De Nesville! Coeur Dieu! Have the Prussians brutalized you, too? Answer me, Monsieur Marche--I know you and I know the little châtelaine--oh, I know!--I, who have watched you at your pretty love-making there in the De Nesville forest, while I was setting my snares for pheasants and hares! Dame! One must live! Yes, I am Brocard--I do not lie. I have taken enough game from your uncle in my time; can I be of service to his nephew?"

He took off his cap with a merry smile, entirely frank, almost impudent. Jack could have hugged him; he did not; he simply told him the exact truth, word by word, slowly and without bitterness, his arm around Lorraine, her head on his shoulder.

"Coeur Dieu!" muttered Brocard, gazing pityingly at Lorraine; "I've half a mind to turn franc-tireur myself and drill holes in the hides of these Prussian swine!"