There may be a field there better suited to my needs." Directly opposite, at the other edge of the road, two tree trunks reared themselves close together, looking tall and gaunt against the white of the fog.

After listening a moment Dick started to cross the road to them.
Just as he reached the trunks he saw something move around the further one, and drew back quickly.

It was well that he did so, for the moving thing was a man armed with an axe which he had swung high and now tried to bring down relentlessly on Prescott's head.
But Dick's arms shot up, his hands catching the haft and wrenching the ugly weapon away from its wielder.
"No, you don't!" Dick muttered in English, taking another step backward from the wild-looking old peasant who had attempted to brain him.
"But a thousand pardons, monsieur!" cried the old man hoarsely in French, and now shaking from head to foot.

"I did not see well in the fog, and I mistook you for a German.

You are a British soldier!" "An American soldier," Dick replied in the same tongue.
"Then, had I killed you, grief would have killed me, too, as it has already sent my wits scattering.