"Well, Marne, my lad, here's your home, beyond a doubt," said John. But
no answer came to the neigh. The house remained silent and dark. It
confirmed John's first belief that the horse belonged to some peasant
who had fled with his family from the armies. He stroked the animal's
neck, and felt real pity for him, as if he had been a child abandoned.
"I know that while I'm a friend I'm almost a stranger to you, but come,
we'll examine things," he said.
He sprang off the horse, and drew his automatic. The possession of the
pistol gave him an immense amount of courage and confidence, but he did
not anticipate any trouble at the house as he was sure that it was
abandoned.
He pushed open the door and saw a dark inside. Staring a little he made
out a plainly furnished room, from which all the lighter articles had
been taken. There was a hearth, but with no fire on it, and John decided
that he would sleep in the house. It was in a lonely place, but he would
take the risk.
The horse had already gone to the stable and was pushing the door with
his nose. John let him in, and found some oat straw which he gave him.
Then he left him munching in content, and as he departed he struck him a
resounding blow of friendliness on the flank.
"Good old Marne," he said, "you're certainly one of the best friends
I've found in Europe. In fact, you're about the only living being I've
associated with that doesn't want to kill somebody.
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