But, concluding no doubt that their efforts were in vain, they all went back into the cellar and began to talk again.
The young woman listened to them; then she went to open the outer door, and stood straining her ears for a sound.
A distant barking reached her. She began to whistle like a huntsman, and almost immediately, two immense dogs loomed through the shadows, and jumped upon her with signs of joy. She held them by the neck, to keep them from running away, and called with all her might: "Halloa, father!"
"He gave a long, strident whistle."
A voice, still very distant, answered: "Halloa, Berthine!"
She waited some moments, then called again: "Halloa, father."
The voice repeated, nearer: "Halloa, Berthine."
The keeper's wife returned: "Don't pass in front of the grating. There are Prussians in the cellar."
All at once the black outline of the man showed on the left, where he had paused between two tree-trunks. He asked, uneasily: "Prussians in the cellar! What are they doing there?"
The young woman began to laugh.
"It is those that came yesterday. They got lost in the forest ever since the morning; I put them in the cellar to keep cool."
And she related the whole adventure; how she had frightened them with shots of the revolver, and shut them up in the cellar.
The old man, still grave, asked: "What do you expect me to do with them at this time of night?"
She answered: "Go and fetch M. Lavigne and his men. He'll take them prisoners; and won't he be pleased!"
Then Father Pichou smiled: "Yes; he will be pleased."
His daughter resumed: "Here's some soup for you; eat it quick and go off again."
The old keeper sat down and began to eat his soup, after having put down two plates full for his dogs.
The Prussians, hearing voices, had become silent.
A quarter of an hour later, Pichou started again. Berthine, with her head in her hands, waited.
The prisoners were moving about again. They shouted and called, and beat continually with their guns on the immovable trap-door of the cellar.
Then they began to fire their guns through the grating, hoping, no doubt, to be heard if any German detachment were passing in the neighbourhood.
The keeper's wife did not stir; but all this noise tried her nerves, and irritated her. An evil anger awoke in her; she would have liked to kill them, the wretches, to keep them quiet.
Then, as her impatience increased, she began to look at the clock and count the minutes.
At last the hands marked the time which she had fixed for their coming.
She opened the door once more to listen for them. She perceived a shadow moving cautiously. She was frightened, and screamed. It was her father.
