At last the poor Cure could walk no farther. He gave his watch to a
companion. "Give it to my family when you can. I am sure they mean to
shoot me." Then he dropped exhausted. The Germans hailed a passing
vehicle, and made him and another old man, who had fallen out, follow in
it. Presently they arrive at Lizy-sur-Ourcq, through which thousands of
German troops are now passing, bound not for Paris, but for Soissons and
the Aisne, and in the blackest of tempers. Here, after twenty-four more
hours of suffering and starvation, the Cure is brought before a
court-martial of German officers sitting in a barn. He is once more
charged with signalling from the church to the French Army. He again
denies the charge, and reminds his judges of what he had done for the
German wounded, to whose gratitude he appeals. Then four German soldiers
give some sort of evidence, founded either on malice or mistake. There
are no witnesses for the defence, no further inquiry. The president of
the court-martial says, in bad French, to the other hostages who stand
by: "The Cure has lied--he is a spy--_il sera juge_.
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