sure of killing his adversary. But the old fellow, squarely hitting the
blade, the point of which would have pierced his stomach, turned it
aside, and with the butt end of the whip struck the soldier a sharp blow
on the temple and he fell to the ground.

Then he, gazed aghast, stupefied with amazement, at the body, twitching
convulsively at first and then lying prone and motionless. He bent over
it, turned it on its back, and gazed at it for some time. The man's eyes
were closed, and blood trickled from a wound at the side of his forehead.
Although it was dark, Father Anthony could distinguish the bloodstain on
the white snow.

He remained there, at his wit's end, while his cart continued slowly on
its way.

What was he to do? He would be shot! They would burn his farm, ruin his
district! What should he do? What should he do? How could he hide the
body, conceal the fact of his death, deceive the Prussians? He heard
voices in the distance, amid the utter stillness of the snow. All at once
he roused himself, and picking up the helmet he placed it on his victim's
head. Then, seizing him round the body, he lifted him up in his arms, and
thus running with him, he overtook his team, and threw the body on top of
the manure. Once in his own house he would think up some plan.

He walked slowly, racking his brain, but without result. He saw, he felt,
that he was lost. He entered his courtyard. A light was shining in one of
the attic windows; his maid was not asleep. He hastily backed his wagon
to the edge of the manure hollow. He thought that by overturning the
manure the body lying on top of it would fall into the ditch and be
buried beneath it, and he dumped the cart.