Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium. Or, Saving the Fortunes of the Trouvilles онлайн

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“There’s a peaceful sleeper here, anyhow,” said Billy, pausing, as they trudged along, leading the horse toward the trail. He pointed to a little mound above which had been set a rude wooden cross. It was the grave of a French soldier, for on the cross had been placed his cap, showing the name of his regiment. On the mound, too, had been scattered a few wild flowers.

“Somebody who had a heart for the cause or the fighter must have passed this way,” observed Henri. “The burial of a soldier near the battle lines hasn’t much ceremony, I am told, and surely doesn’t include flowers.”

The boys slept that night in the open, with the saddle for a pillow. They were awakened just before dawn by the restless antics of Bon Ami (“Good Friend”)—for so Henri had named the horse. The animal snorted and tugged at the tether as if scenting some invisible approach through the woods, at the edge of which the three had been passing the night.

Billy and Henri were on their feet in an instant, rubbing their eyes and trying to locate by sight or sound among the trees or elsewhere in the shadowy landscape the cause of Bon Ami’s disturbed action.