She had seated herself on a stool by the hearth. Presently she spread her apron with trembling fingers, took the glazed bowl of soup upon her lap and began to eat, slowly, casting long, unquiet glances at him from time to time where he still at table leaned heavily, looking out into the rain.
When he caught her eye he smiled, summoning her with a nod of his boyish head. She set aside her bowl obediently, and, rising, brought him his crutches. And at the same moment somebody knocked lightly on the outer door.
Marie-Josephine had unpinned her coiffe. Now she pinned it on over her bonnet before going to the door, glancing uneasily around at him while she tied her tresses and settled the delicate starched wings of her bonnet.
"That's odd," he said, "that knocking," staring at the door. "Perhaps it is the lost Englishman."
"God send them," she whispered, going to the door and opening it.
It certainly seemed to be one of the lost Englishmen—a big, square-shouldered, blond young fellow, tall and powerful, in the leather dress of an aëronaut. His glass mask was lifted like the visor of a tilting helmet, disclosing a red, weather-beaten face, wet with rain. Strength, youth, rugged health was their first impression of this leather-clad man from the clouds.
He stepped inside the house immediately, halted when he caught sight of Wayland in his undress uniform, glanced involuntarily at his crutches and bandaged leg, cast a quick, penetrating glance right and left; then he spoke pleasantly in his hesitating, imperfect French—so oddly imperfect that Wayland could not understand him at all.
"Who are you?" he demanded in English.
The airman seemed astonished for an instant, then a quick smile broke out on his ruddy features:
"I say, this is lucky! Fancy finding an Englishman here!—wherever this place may be." He laughed. "Of course I know I'm 'somewhere in France,' as the censor has it, but I'm hanged if I know where!"
"Come in and shut the door," said Wayland, reassured. Marie-Josephine closed the door. The aëronaut came forward, stood dripping a moment, then took the chair to which Wayland pointed, seating himself as though a trifle tired.
"Shot down," he explained, gaily. "An enemy submarine winged us out yonder somewhere. I tramped over these bally moors for hours before I found a sign of any path. A sheepwalk brought me here."
"You are lucky. There is only one house on these moors—this! Who are you?" asked Wayland.
"West—flight-lieutenant, 10th division, Cinque-Ports patrolling squadron."
"Good heavens, man! What are you doing in Finistère?"
"What!"
"You are in Brittany, province of Finistère. Didn't you know it?"
The air-officer seemed astounded. Presently he said: "The dirty weather foxed us. Then that fellow out yonder winged us. I was glad enough to see a coast line."
"Did you fall?"
"No; we controlled our landing pretty well."
"Where did you land?"
There was a second's hesitation; the airman looked at Wayland, glanced at his crippled leg.
"Out there near some woods," he said. "My pilot's there now trying to patch up.... You are not French, are you?"
"American."
"Oh! A—volunteer, I presume."
"Foreign Legion—2d."
"I see. Back from the trenches with a leg."
"It's nearly well. I'll be back soon."
"Can you walk?" asked the airman so abruptly that Wayland, looking at him, hesitated, he did not quite know why.
"Not very far," he replied, cautiously. "I can get to the window with my crutches pretty well."
And the next moment he felt ashamed of his caution when the airman laughed frankly.
"I need a guide to some petrol," he said. "Evidently you can't go with me."
"Haven't you enough petrol to take you to Lorient?"
"How far is Lorient?"
Wayland told him.
"I don't know," said the flight-lieutenant; "I'll have to try to get somewhere. I suppose it is useless for me to ask," he added, "but have you, by any chance, a bit of canvas—an old sail or hammock?—I don't need much. That's what I came for—and some shellac and wire, and a screwdriver of sorts? We need patching as well as petrol; and we're a little short of supplies."
Wayland's steady gaze never left him, but his smile was friendly.
"We're in a tearing hurry, too," added the flight-lieutenant, looking out of the window.
Wayland smiled. "Of course there's no petrol here. There's nothing here. I don't suppose you could have landed in a more deserted region if you had tried. There's a château in the Laïs woods, but it's closed; owner and servants are at the war and the family in Paris."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Everybody has cleared out; the war has stripped the country; and there never were any people on these moors, excepting shooting parties and, in the summer, a stray artist or two from Quimperlé."
The lieutenant looked at him. "You say there is nobody here—between here and Lorient? No—troops?"
"There's nothing to guard. The coast is one vast shoal. Ships pass hull down. Once a day a coast guard patrols along the cliffs–"
"When?"
"He has passed, unfortunately. Otherwise he might signal by relay to Lorient and have them send you out some petrol. By the way—are you hungry?"
The flight-lieutenant showed all his firm, white teeth under a yellow mustache, which curled somewhat upward. He laughed in a carefree way, as though something had suddenly eased his mind of perplexity—perhaps the certainty that there was no possible chance for petrol. Certainty is said to be more endurable than suspense.
"I'll stop for a bite—if you don't mind—while my pilot tinkers out yonder," he said. "We're not in such a bad way. It might easily have been worse. Do you think you could find us a bit of sail, or something, to use for patching?"