It was expected of them, and none would be heavier or more loutish than he.

He thrust both hands in his pockets, and began to whistle familiar German songs and hymns, varying them now and then with a chanson or two that might have been sung for centuries in Lorraine.
The path led on across a little valley and then along the slope of another ridge.

Under the increasing heat of the sun the snow was now melting much faster, and streams ran in every ravine.

But the stalwart young peasant, Jean Castel of Lorraine, was sure of his footing, and he advanced steadily toward his goal.
Germans in rifle pits saw the figure coming their way, and several officers examined it critically with their glasses.

All pronounced the stranger obviously a peasant, and they were equally sure that he could do them no harm.