Henri watched grimly and hummed a little song:
"_Trou la la, ca ne va guere_;
_Trou la la, ca ne va pas_."
Still humming under his breath, when the peasant left the crossroads he
followed him. Not closely. The peasant cut across the fields. Henri
followed the road and entered the fields at a different angle. He knew
his way quite well, for he had done the same thing each day for four
days. Only twice he had been a Belgian peasant, and once he was an
officer, and once he had been a priest.
Four days he had done this thing, but to-day was different. To-day there
would be something worth while, he fancied. And he made a mental note
that Sara Lee must not be in the little house that night.
When he had got to a canal where the pollard willows were already sending
out their tiny red buds, Henri sat down again. The village lay before
him, desolate and ruined, a travesty of homes. And on a slight rise, but
so concealed from him by the willows that only the great wings showed,
stood the windmill.
It was the noon respite then, and beyond the line of poplars all was quiet.
The enemy liked time for foods and the Belgians crippled by the loss of
that earlier train, were husbanding their ammunition.
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