"
His voice sank lower and lower. Father Courcy looked at him gravely.
"But your farm is a part of France. You belong to France. He that
saveth his life shall lose it!"
"Yes, yes, I know. But my farm is such a small part of France.
I am only one man. What difference does one man make, except to
himself? Moreover, I had done my part, that was certain. Twenty
times, really, my life had been lost. Why must I throw it away
again? Listen, Father. There is a village in the Vosges, near the
Swiss border, where a relative of mine lives. If I could get to
him he would take me in and give me some other clothes and help me
over the frontier into Switzerland. There I could change my name
and find work until the war is over. That was my plan. So I set
out on my journey, following the less-travelled roads, tramping by
night and sleeping by day. Thus I came to this spring at the same
time as you by chance, by pure chance. Do you see?"
Father Courcy looked very stern and seemed about to speak in anger.
Then he shook his head, and said quietly: "No, I do not see that
at all.
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