Bob, who was leading,
bumped into a man in the dark.
"_Pardon_," said the man.
"_Pardon, monsieur_," replied Bob at once.
This was met with a soft-voiced assurance, in French that it was
of no consequence, the remark concluding with the words, "_mon fils_."
"Are you the Father?" Bob blurted out in English.
"Yes," came in low tones in return. "I am Pere Marquee, my son. Say
no more. You may be overheard. Follow me."
Around a corner, down a lane went Pere Marquee, the boys following with
their strange load. Once well clear of the main street, the Father
stopped.
"Speak slowly," he said. "I understand your language but imperfectly,
my son."
Whereupon Bob promptly told him, in few words, of their quest. He
told him, too, that they were American aviators in imminent danger
of capture.
"Bring the poor woman this way," said the priest. He led them to
a house which he entered without knocking, and asked them to enter.
They took the dead woman into a room occupied by two old ladies,
and set down their load as Pere Marquee hurriedly told the short
story he had heard from Bob.
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