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A cheerful voice hailed him in French: "What ho! you are up with the sun, comrade." "He rises betimes that lies in a dog's lair," answered Gerard crossly. "Courage, l'ami! le diable est mort," was the instant reply.
"Courage, soldats! Vive la mort, pour la femme et pour la gloire!" and with a shout half-exulting, half-maddened, the Gallic blood again fired to the desperate feat. Then there was a diversion a rush to the opposite side of the building a ladder might be of use there.
Under their talk, in the minds of both, that lonely spot lingered, and the legend: Soldat Inconnu, Mort pour La France. After four days' rest in the rear, the Battalion went to the front again in new country, about ten kilometers east of the trench they had relieved before. One morning Colonel Scott sent for Claude and Gerhardt and spread his maps out on the table.
Had they crossed each others path two years ago they would probably have fought a la mort, but the old traditions which linger in spite of every circumstance in the hearts of Irishmen were strong in both, and the cause of Ireland united them, only alas, that they might each of them pay the cost of their honest, if imprudent enthusiasm, by sharing the same prison in Ireland, and falling within the grasp of the government which they looked on as the oppressor of their fatherland."
"'No, Admiral, it's too late, said I. 'If that had come first, and from yourself, all well; but it looks like a bargain now, and I 'll not have promotion that way. "'Mort du diable! said he, stamping with passion. 'But they 're all the same; these Bretons are as brutal in their obstinacy as their own cattle.
"La mort a des rigueurs
He threw off his great-coat, doubled it down by the best place near the fire, and made the youth forthwith possess himself of the seat it afforded. He then lifted the cover of the mysterious caldron. "Well, Mort," cried he to the old woman, as he bent wistfully down, "what have we here?"
"Bravo!" Kirillov almost bellowed with delight. "'Vive la republique democratique sociale et universelle ou la mart! No, no, that's not it. 'Liberte, egalite, fraternite ou la mort. There, that's better, that's better." He wrote it gleefully under his signature. "Enough, enough," repeated Pyotr Stepanovitch. "Stay, a little more. I'll sign it again in French, you know.
Maybe the man has him locked up. Had I better tell the authorities?" Then, as he looked at the message again, he had a different thought. "No, Mort couldn't have written it," he said to himself. "He knows how to work a typewriter, and he'd use capitals in the places where they belong. And, besides, this message isn't finished. Whoever wrote it had to stop before he was through.
There was an oil lamp in the driveway leading to the street, and Bert, pausing under it, pulled out the queer slip of paper, and showed it to Mort. "I thought maybe you might know something about this," he said. "Where did you get it?" "I picked it up right near where you saw me, under the window. Some one threw it out." "So, that's why you were there, eh? I couldn't imagine.
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