"We're safe for the present," remarked Kenneth, after the two fugitives had placed a distance of at least four miles between them and the outlying German post. "I didn't mention it before, but the belt is slipping horribly. The strain has stretched it a lot; so we may as well shorten the rubber."
"By Jove, it is slack!" exclaimed Rollo, testing the "give" of the belt. "It's a wonder it didn't let us down badly. It's a funny thing, old man, but I've often noticed that if we expect a lot of trouble we get through without hardly any bother. The last lap, when we rushed the German lines, was as easy as ABC."
"Yes," assented his companion. "I've noticed that too. It's the unexpected trifle that often leads to greater difficulties. Got your knife handy? Oh, I suppose the Germans took a fancy to that too. Can you get mine from my pocket? That's right, cut the belt through at an inch from the end."
The motor-cyclists had halted in the midst of a war-devastated area. Farm houses and buildings were numerous, but in almost every case they had suffered severely from shell-fire. Not a living creature, besides themselves, was in sight. Here and there were corpses of the gallant defenders of Belgium, some in uniforms, some in civilian attire. These men, shot whilst in the act of retiring under a terrific artillery fire, had been left where they fell, showing how heavy had been the German attack; for in most cases the plucky Belgians contrived to carry off those of their comrades who had died for their country.
Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was a large farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were the bodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant—an old man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to remove his goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen an easy target to the German guns.
A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine the shell-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. But in this they were disappointed. Not so much as a scrap of anything to eat was to be found.
Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almost forgotten the refreshing taste of the water given him by the German private. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could not bring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by the roadside.
The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were most eager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest. It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they would be safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends, the Belgian troops.
"She's pulling splendidly now," announced Kenneth, referring to the transmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both lads had now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, and conversation was a fairly easy matter.
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter. Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed down again, finally coming to a dead-stop.
"No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty."
"Rot!" ejaculated his companion incredulously. "It was full when we started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet."
Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.
"Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone."
Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quantity of the petrol had run to waste.
"It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for a tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you along."
Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he sturdily refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he knew that pushing a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespass upon his friend's generous conduct to that extent.
On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.
"The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of their homes," said Kenneth. "They'll be able to give us some information as to where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubt it, we may be also able to procure petrol."
Suddenly a peasant, who was standing about a hundred yards in front of the nearest house, took to his heels and ran, shouting as he went. Before he gained the village, spurts of dull flame burst from behind a heap of debris piled across the road, and half a dozen bulletszippedpast the two lads.
"Lie down!" exclaimed Kenneth, stopping only to place his precious motor-cycle behind a tree by the side of a ditch, before he followed the prompt example of his companion. "Those fellows have mistaken us for Uhlans. I don't wonder at it, now I come to think about it."
Although sheltered by a mound by the side of the ditch, their place of concealment was known to the peasants. The latter kept up quite a hot fire from antiquated muskets and sporting-guns. Shots whizzed overhead, and showers of pellets fell all around the two lads.
"Can't blame them," said Rollo. "Let's hoist the white flag; it's no disgrace in this case."
Kenneth produced a very discoloured pocket-handkerchief. At one time it had been a white one, but owing to the various uses to which it had been put its colour resembled that tint which the French, with a reason, call "isabelle". For want of a staff he was obliged to hold it by his uplifted arm. In return he received a couple of pellets from a "twelve-bore", which, fortunately, only inflicted two punctured wounds in his skin.
"I'm not a rabbit," muttered Kenneth, and he continued to wave the "white flag".
Presently the firing ceased, and a swarm of men, accompanied by several shrieking women, bore down upon the two supposed Uhlans.
"We're friends!" shouted Kenneth. "We're English. We've escaped from the Prussians."
He might just as well have attempted to stem a torrent with a feather. The villagers saw only the hated uniforms of their merciless oppressors. They had no cause to grant quarter to Uhlans, for Uhlans were brutal and murderous to all with whom they came in contact when on their dreaded raids.
"A mort! A bas!" rose from the mob like the growling of a pack of half-famished animals. The two British lads were in dire peril of being torn limb from limb.
"A bas les Prussiens! Nous sommes Anglais," shouted Kenneth again, folding his arms and trying his level best to appear calm.
A stick, hurled by a woman's hand, missed his head and struck him heavily upon the shoulder. At almost the same time Rollo was hit by a broken brick, the missile striking him in the ribs.
"Tenez!" thundered an authoritative voice. "Let us show these vile Uhlans that Belgians are civilized. We will give them a fair trial, and shoot them afterwards."
"Anything for a respite," thought Kenneth. Even in this moment of peril the Belgian speaker's idea of a fair trial tickled his sense of humour.
The man who had intervened was a short, thickset fellow, with lowering eyebrows and a crop of closely-cut hair. He was dressed in black, while round his waist was a shawl, evidently intended for a badge of office. He had donned it in such a hurry that the loops of the bows had come undone and were trailing in the dust.
Grasped by a dozen toil-hardened hands, and surrounded by the rest of the survivors of the justly exasperated inhabitants, the two lads were hurried towards the village.
"I wish we had kept on our uniforms under these, old man," said Rollo. "We've nothing to prove our identity."
"They're speaking in German. That proves their guilt," announced one of their captors.
Neither Kenneth nor Rollo attempted to deny the statement—somewhat unwisely, for their unsophisticated guards took silence as an expression of assent to the accusation.
The military passes provided by the Belgian Government had been destroyed—Rollo's, when captured at Cortenaeken; Kenneth's, when the lads made their hitherto beneficial exchange of uniforms. As Rollo had remarked, they possessed nothing that they could produce to prove their identity.
Happening to look over his shoulder, Kenneth saw a peasant kicking his motor-cycle. Unable to wheel it, since its owner had slipped in the clutch previous to placing it under cover, the Belgian was venting his annoyance upon the machine.
"Stop!" shouted Kenneth. "That's an English motor-cycle. Would you do harm to anything made by your friends the English?"
He used the word "English" advisedly, for experience had taught him that the term "British" is hardly known to the peasantry of Belgium. Even the educated classes make use of the expression "English" more frequently than "British".
"Aye; do not injure it, Henri," called out the man who evidently held the office of Mayor. "When the English soldiers arrive to help us to drive back the Bosches it may be useful to them. Parbleu! It is useless to us."
In front of the ruined church the villagers held a most informal trial upon their captives. From the Belgians' point of view the evidence was absolutely conclusive against the prisoners. They were in German uniforms.
In vain the lads mentioned the names of Major Résimont, Captain Planchenoît, and other officers of the 9th Regiment of the Line. The peasants knew nothing of them; besides, they declared, it was an easy matter to invent names. Again, the prisoners spoke French with a foreign accent; they had been caught whilst coming from the direction of the German lines. They were, no doubt, scouts of the Uhlan patrol, bent upon completing the work of massacre and destruction that the guns had begun against the unresisting village.
"Hang them: powder is too good to waste upon canaille such as these," suggested one of the peasants.
"Yes, hang them," agreed another. "I'll do the job. 'Twill be but a slight revenge for my murdered wife and children. Let the Uhlans see, when next they come, that we, too, can be terrible."
The Major nodded his head approvingly. A man shuffled forward with a coil of rope.
"One moment," exclaimed Kenneth, who even in this moment of peril did not lose his head. "If we are to die, cannot we have the service of a priest?"
It was a faint chance. A representative of the Church would undoubtedly have great influence with his flock. He would, more than likely, listen impartially to the story of the two condemned prisoners.
"A priest?" echoed one of the peasants mockingly. "Is it likely that Germans who have purposely shattered God's house can hope for absolution from a priest?"
"Besides, we have not a priest," added another. "Monsieur le curé was wounded early in the day. He was taken to Louvain."
"Hurry with the execution, camarades," said the Mayor. "Time is precious. At any moment a strong body of these Uhlans may be upon us. Prepared, we may bring down a few and sell our lives dearly—but this is not being prepared."
Kenneth shivered when he felt the contact of the rope round his neck. He glanced at his companion. Rollo's face was red with suppressed fury. He looked as if he were on the point of breaking loose and making a desperate bid for freedom. It was the injustice of the whole business, not the fear of death, that agitated him.
"Let's have a slap at them," said Rollo in a low tone. "If we get a dose of lead it will be better than a rope. Quickly, before they begin to tie our hands. Ready?"
"Aye," replied Kenneth calmly.
"One moment! You mark time with that fellow with the scar over his eye. We'll keep together as long as we can. I hardly feel my ankle——"
He stopped. His ready ear detected the clatter of horses' hoofs. The peasants heard it too. In evident alarm they gripped their antiquated fire-arms. The fellow with the rope let the noose fall from his hands and made a rush for his musket.
"It is well, camarades," shouted the Mayor. "They are our soldiers."
Down the main street of the ruined village rode a troop of Belgian lancers, followed by a motor-car on which was mounted an automatic gun. Seeing two men in Uhlan uniforms surrounded by a mob of angry peasants, the officer in charge ordered his men to halt, and rode up to ascertain the cause of the commotion.
As he did so, Kenneth recognized him as one of the officers who took part in trapping the Uhlans after their raid on Tongres.
"A nous, mon capitaine!" he said in a loud, clear voice.
"What have we here?" exclaimed the officer in astonishment; then recalling Kenneth's features he continued: "The English soldier in Uhlan uniform! What is the meaning of it all?"
In as few words as possible Kenneth related the circumstances that led to their present condition.
When he had finished, the captain turned to the leading villager.
"Monsieur le maire," he said. "I will be answerable for these two Englishmen. Believe me, in your zeal for your country's good you have slightly overstepped the bounds. Fortunately there is no real harm done, and messieurs les Anglais will no doubt forgive an unintentional injury."
The Mayor, who had meanwhile readjusted his sash, saluted the lancer captain, then held out his hand to Kenneth.
"Pardon, camarade," he said.
Now that the danger was over, both lads felt able to accept the deep apologies of the peasants. The latter had been labouring under a genuine grievance, and their somewhat high-handed action would admit of an excuse. They were quaking in their shoes lest their former prisoners should take steps to secure their punishment; but finding themselves magnanimously treated, they responded with three hurrahs for England and the two men who had come from that country to aid stricken Belgium in her troubles.
"Now what do you propose doing?" asked the Captain. "As for us, we must push on. We have an important reconnaissance to make."
"We want to rejoin our regiment—the 9th of the Line, sir," replied Kenneth.
The officer smiled grimly.
"I regret, messieurs, that I cannot help you in that direction," he said. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is to make your way to Brussels, and there await news of your regiment. Should anyone question you, say that I—Captain Doublebois—have instructed you. Is there anything else?"
"We've run short of petrol, sir," announced Rollo, pointing in the direction of the motor-cycle, the handlebars of which were just visible above the edge of the ditch.
"Parbleu! Petrol is now as precious as one's life-blood. Nevertheless, I think we may be able to spare you a litre. Corporal Fougette," he shouted, addressing the non-commissioned officer in charge of the motor machine-gun, "measure out a litre of petrol for these messieurs—good measure, not a drop more or less."
The Captain stood by while Kenneth brought up the cycle and had the petrol poured into the tank.
"Now, messieurs," he continued, "this will suffice to take you as far as our nearest depot. After that, proceed to Brussels. I'll warrant you'll be in need of a rest, but there will be plenty to occupy your minds, or my name is not Captain Raoul Doublebois. But take my advice, messieurs, and get rid of those accursed uniforms!"
It was late in the day when Kenneth and Rollo having partaken of a plain but satisfying meal on the way, arrived in Belgium's capital.
The streets were crowded with refugees from the war-inundated districts. Throngs of pale-faced women and children, for the most part unnaturally apathetic, stood in mute despair around the country carts piled high with their belongings. Many of them had seen their houses torn by shot and shell, their neighbours slain by the German guns. Rendered homeless, they had fled to Brussels; their villages might be overrun and occupied by the invaders, but the capital—never! The Allies would never permit that.
Old men related the tales of their grandsires, how, almost a hundred years ago, England saved Brussels from the invader. History would, they felt convinced, repeat itself. So in their thousands the refugees poured into the already congested streets of the city.
Kenneth and his companion were indeed fortunate in securing the room they had occupied during their previous stay in the Belgian capital. Quickly divesting themselves of the civilian garb that they had managed to procure, they threw themselves into bed and slept like logs until nine the next morning.
When Rollo attempted to rise he found that his ankle had swollen to such an extent that it was almost a matter of impossibility to set foot to ground. The excitement and continual movement of the previous day had tended to make him forget the injury, but once his boot was removed and the limb allowed to rest, inflammation and consequent enlargement of the joint were the result.
"Take it easy, old man," suggested Kenneth. "When we've had breakfast I'll saunter out and see how things are progressing. Let me see, what's the programme? New uniforms; money—we have about ten centimes between the pair of us. It's lucky the pater placed that fifty pounds to my credit in the bank. The trouble is, how am I to prove my identity? Then there's Thelma. Perhaps Major Résimont's family has returned to the Rue de la Tribune, so I'll find out. I'll be gone some little time, old man."
"I don't mind," replied Rollo. "Before you go, you might get hold of a paper."
The cost of their simple breakfast was an "eye-opener". Already famine prices were being asked in the overcrowded city. Somewhat shamefacedly Kenneth had to explain the reason for his pecuniary embarrassment; but to his surprise the short, podgy woman who corresponded to the British landlady expressed her willingness to wait until messieurs les Anglais were accommodated.
"Perhaps, although I trust not, I may have to entertain Prussians," she added. "Then I know it is hopeless to expect payment."
Having had breakfast, Kenneth went out. He had put on an overcoat, lent by his obliging hostess, in order to conceal the nondescript garments he had obtained as civilian clothes.
The crowded streets were strangely quiet. Beyond the occasional crying of a child or the barking of some of the numerous dogs, there was little sound from the listless throng.
When Kenneth was last in Brussels the people were vociferously discussing the situation, especially the momentarily expected arrival of the British Expeditionary Force. Now hope seemed dead. No longer was there any talk of foreign aid. People began to accept as a matter of course the fact that their city would be handed over to the Germans without opposition. Already the seat of government had been removed to Antwerp. The Civil Guards, who had at first commenced to erect barricades on the roads approaching from the eastward, had been ordered to remove the obstructions and to disarm themselves. In order to spare their city from sack and destruction, the Bruxellois had decided to admit the Huns without opposition.
Before Kenneth had gone very far his progress was barred by a vast concourse of people. Civil Guards were forcing a way through the throng, to allow the passing of a Red Cross convoy. There were thirty wagons, all filled to their utmost capacity, for the most part with mangled specimens of humanity. For every soldier wounded by a rifle-bullet there were, roughly, twenty-nine maimed by shell-fire.
Another battle had just taken place, with the now usual result. The Belgians, utterly outnumbered and outranged, had been compelled to fall back in spite of a determined and vigorous defence. Of their army a portion had retreated towards Ostend, while the greater part had retired to the shelter of the vast and supposedly impregnable fortress of Antwerp.
As soon as the convoy had passed, Kenneth hurried to the military depot. He found the place locked up. Not a soldier was to be seen. Enquiries brought the information that, regarding the fall of Brussels as inevitable, the authorities had transferred practically the whole of the military stores to Antwerp and Bruges.
"You want a uniform?" repeated the old citizen to whom Kenneth had announced his requirements. "Ma foi! Your only chance, unless you get a discarded uniform from the hospital (and there, alas! there are many), is to follow the army to Antwerp. But you are not a Belgian?"
"No, English," replied Kenneth. "And I must remain in Brussels for a few days."
"Then, mon garçon, put the idea of a uniform out of your head whilst you are here. Otherwise, when the Bosches arrive—— Ah, mon Dieu, they are barbarians!"
"Perhaps the old chap is right," thought Kenneth as he resumed his way. "I cannot desert Rollo, and if I were to be found in Belgian uniform it would mean at least a trip across the Rhine and confinement in a barbed-wire compound till the end of the war. Now for the Credit Belgique."
Upon arriving at the bank the lad had another setback. The premises were closed; all the windows were heavily shuttered, whilst on the door was a notice, printed in French and Flemish, to the effect that the whole of the bullion and specie had been taken over by the Government, and that the bonds had been sent to London for security until Belgium was free from the invading German armies.
"Bang goes my fifty pounds!" thought Kenneth. "We'll have to exist on our corporal's pay—one franc fifty centimes a week, if we can get it."
From the bank Kenneth made his way to the Rue de la Tribune. Here most of the shops were shut and every other private house deserted. At the house owned by the Résimont family there was no sign of occupation. One of the windows on the ground floor had been broken. Through the empty window-frame a curtain fluttered idly in the breeze. Already it was frayed by the action of the wind. Obviously the damage had been going on for some considerable time, without any attempt to prevent it.
Hoping against hope, Kenneth hammered at the knocker, but the door remained unanswered.
From the doorway of a tobacconist's shop opposite, the portly, well-groomed proprietor appeared. Raising a jewel-bedecked hand, he beckoned to the shabby youth standing on the Résimonts' doorstep.
"Monsieur requires——?" he asked, raising his eyebrows to complete his question.
"I wish to see Madame Résimont, monsieur."
"Madame set out soon after the war broke out. Whither I know not. But Monsieur is not Belgian?"
"No, English," replied Kenneth promptly, at the same time wondering why two people had asked that question that morning. It was a shock to his self-confidence, for he was beginning to pride himself upon his perfect French accent.
"You live in the city?"
"For a few days, monsieur."
"Good! Perchance I may hear news of madame. If you will let me have your address, I will in that case let you know." Kenneth furnished the desired information, and, having thanked the tobacconist, began to retrace his steps. As he did so he glanced at the name over the shop. In brass letters were the words "Au bon fumeur—Jules de la Paix ".
The worthy Jules did not wait until Kenneth was out of sight. Tripping back into the shop, he grabbed an envelope from the counter and wrote the name and address which he had obtained.
"English. Spy undoubtedly," he muttered gleefully. "In another two days that will be worth much to me."
For Jules de la Paix was Belgian only as far as his assumed name went. In reality he was a Prussian, a native of Charlottenburg, and a spy in the pay of the German Government. For over twenty years he had been in business as a tobacconist in the Rue de la Tribune, fostered by Teutonic subsidies, waiting for the expected day when the Kaiser's grey-clad legions were to strike at France through the supposedly inviolate territory of Belgium.
"I'll call at the post office," decided Kenneth. "I don't suppose it will be of any use, but on the off-chance there may be letters waiting for Rollo or me. There's no harm in trying."
In blissful ignorance of the danger that overshadowed him, Kenneth made his way through the crowd invading the post office. It was nearly forty minutes before his turn came. In reply to his request, a hopelessly overworked clerk went to a pigeonhole and removed a pile of envelopes.
"Nothing, Monsieur Everest," he announced, after a perfunctory glance at the various addresses. "Nor is there anything for Monsieur Barrington."
"Hullo, Everest, old boy! What on earth are you doing here?" exclaimed a voice in Kenneth's ear.
Turning, the lad found himself confronted by a tall, erect Englishman, whose features were partly concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft felt hat.
"I'm afraid I don't—— Why, it's Dacres!"
"Right, old boy! But you haven't answered my question. What are you doing in Brussels at this lively moment?"
Dick Dacres was an old St. Cyprian's boy. He was Kenneth's senior by several years, having left the Upper Sixth while young Everest was still in the Third. Kenneth ought to have recognized him sooner, for he had been Dacres's fag for one term.
"Let's get out of this crush," continued Dacres, grasping his old schoolfellow by the arm. Once clear of the crowd he noticed for the first time the lad's shabby clothes, but with inborn courtesy he refrained from passing any remark that might cause any confusion on the part of young Everest. "I'm out here on service; can't give you any particulars. What are you doing here?"
"I'm with Barrington—you remember him? We're corporals of the 9th Regiment of the Line—motor-cyclist section."
"Indeed! Where is Barrington?"
"In bed with a sprained ankle. Would you like to see him? It isn't very far."
Dacres glanced at his watch.
"I should, only I can't stop very long. I have an appointment with the——" He broke off suddenly.
"You're not in uniform, I see."
"No; we had to discard ours. I have been trying to get a fresh equipment, but it seems hopeless in this place."
"Fire away and let's have your yarn," said Dacres encouragingly, as they walked side by side along one of the fairly-unfrequented streets running parallel with the Rue de la Tribune.
Before they reached the modest lodging Dacres had skilfully extracted the main thread of his late college-chums' adventures.
"Then you're temporarily on the rocks," he observed.
"I didn't say so," expostulated Kenneth.
"My dear man, I know you didn't, but I can put two and two together. It's a delicate subject, Everest, and I'm afraid I'm rather a blunt sort of chap, so excuse me. You're on your beam-ends?"
"Unfortunately, yes," admitted Kenneth. "The pater sent a draft to the Credit Belgique, but before I could draw on it the bank's been transferred. But it will be all right soon, I expect."
"Very well then, until things get a bit straight, let me give you a leg-up. Don't be uppish, old man. Remember we're Britons in a strange land. Luckily I'm fairly flush."
So saying, Dacres produced his purse, and extracting five twenty-franc pieces forced them into Kenneth's hand, abruptly checking the lad's mingled protestations and thanks.
"Rollo, old man, I've brought someone to see you," announced his comrade, as he opened the door of the room in which Rollo was lying in bed.
"Hulloa, Barrington!"
"Hulloa, Dacres!"
That was the prosaic greeting, nothing more and nothing less; yet there was a wealth of cordial surprise in the interchange of exclamations.
The time Dacres had at his disposal was only too short. He was, he explained, a sub-lieutenant in one of the recently-raised naval brigades, and had accompanied an officer of rank upon an important mission to Belgium. More he was unable to say. He had already been to Ostend, and was now about to proceed to Antwerp.
"We're returning home to-night," he concluded. "If you like to entrust me with a letter, I'll see that it's posted safely the moment I set foot ashore in England. If I've time I'll look your people up and let them know you're doing your little bit. It all depends upon whether I can get leave, but we are hard at it whipping recruits into shape."
"Awfully decent chap," commented Kenneth, when Dick Dacres had taken his departure. "He would insist upon lending me a hundred francs. Otherwise, old man, we would be on the rocks—absolutely. I've drawn three blanks—no uniforms obtainable, no tidings of the Résimont family, and no letters from home. I think we ought to hang on here a little while until your ankle's fit. We may see the beastly Germans marching through the city, for the burgomaster has gone, so I hear, to obtain terms of capitulation."
"Where are the Belgian troops?"
"Mostly in Antwerp."
"Then if I were you, I'd make tracks for Antwerp while there's time."
"Are you fit, then?"
"I wasn't referring to myself. This ankle will keep me here some days longer, I'm afraid. But you go, and if I have a ghost of a chance I'll find you again within a week."
Kenneth shook his head.
"Can't be done," he declared. "I mean to stand by you till you're well again. It would be interesting to watch how those Germans behave in Brussels."
"It's risky," remarked Rollo.
"So is everything connected with this business, old man. Besides, we are acting under the orders of Captain Doublebois, so that settles it."
The morning of the 20th August—a fateful day in the history of Belgium—dawned, accompanied by a drizzling rain. The sky seemed to be shedding tears of sympathy at the impending fate of Brussels, for, according to the terms of the agreement made between the German commander, Sixtus von Arnim, and the Belgian burgomaster, the invading troops were to march in unopposed.
When the triumphant Prussians entered Paris after the siege of 1870, their pageant-like progress was witnessed only by a few exasperated Parisians from behind the shuttered windows of their houses. The streets along the line of route were practically deserted. Had the Bruxellois adopted a similar plan, much of the effect of the gaudy display of Germany in arms would have been thrown away.
But the citizens of Brussels acted otherwise. In spite of their fear and trembling they assembled in vast, silent throngs. Curiosity had got the better of their national pride. Those who had good reason to doubt the plighted word of a Prussian took courage at the high-spirited yet conciliatory proclamation of the debonair M. Max, the burgomaster:
"As long as I live, or am a free agent, I shall endeavour to protect the rights and dignity of my fellow-citizens. I pray you, therefore, to make my task easier by refraining from all acts of hostility against the German soldiery. Citizens, befall what may, listen to your burgomaster. He will not betray you. Long live Belgium, free and independent! Long live Brussels!"
Accordingly the citizens, amongst whom were few able-bodied men, assembled in crowds ten or twelve deep along the principal thoroughfares. Amongst them was Kenneth Everest, who, in his civilian garb, attracted no attention from those who stood near him. Since a dignified silence seemed to brood over the humiliated Belgians, Kenneth had no occasion to speak, and thus disclose his nationality. He knew, by reports from his hostess, that there were spies innumerable mingled with the throng; but he was unaware that he was already marked for denunciation to the German authorities as soon as the Prussian rule was established in Belgium's capital.
Presently a wave of dull expectancy swept through the heavy-hearted populace. It was now early in the afternoon. From the south-east and east came the faint discord of military bands playing one against the other. Louder and louder grew the noise, till the strident tones of "Deutschland über Alles", played by the leading regimental band, drowned the chaotic blare of the next.
Craning his neck in order to obtain a clear view through the forest of dripping umbrellas—for the rain was now falling steadily—Kenneth could discern the head of the procession—a general, swarthy and heavy jowled, who scowled under his heavy eyebrows at the crowd as he rode by. He was the personification of German brute force, a stiffly-rigid figure in grey. He reminded Kenneth of a cast-iron equestrian statue smothered in grey paint.
In close formation came the various regiments of the invaders, men whose fresh uniforms and faultless equipment gave the appearance of troops straight from their regimental depots rather than war-worn veterans. And this, in fact, was the case. The men who had learned to respect the courage and determination of the hitherto despised Belgian troops had not been permitted to engage in the triumphal pageant through the surrendered city. Others of the almost innumerable Teutonic legions had been sent forward to impress the remaining inhabitants of Brussels.
Suddenly a guttural order rang out. As one man the grey-clad ranks broke into the machine-like goose-step. Possibly this spectacular display was meant to seal the impression upon the onlookers. If so, those responsible for the order were grievously mistaken. Regarding the action as one of insulting triumph, the Belgians strengthened their resolutions to impress on their absent troops the necessity of resisting to the last cartridge.
With the troops came large transport sections, motor machine-guns, batteries, and siege-trains. During that memorable afternoon nearly fifty thousand German troops poured into the city. They were resolved to hold and bleed the luckless citizens to the last gold piece—an indemnity for non-resistance.
"So they're here?" asked Rollo of his companion upon the latter's return. "I heard the din and the terrific discord of their brass bands. Have they done any damage?"
"Not as far as I could see. It is too early to come to any conclusion. At any rate, we'll lie low for a few days. I don't suppose they'll trouble us. How's the ankle?"
For the whole of the next day Kenneth remained indoors with his partly-crippled companion. Perhaps the most galling part of his detention was the total absence of news from without, for none of the papers were permitted to appear.
Small detachments of Germans patrolled the side streets, and, generally speaking, order was well maintained. The conquerors evidently wished to impress the citizens of Brussels with their magnanimous conduct; but, with the record of their deeds against the unresisting villages of the provinces of Liége and Brabant, the Germans made very little headway in gaining the goodwill of the inhabitants.
About nine on the following morning the lads heard a furious hammering on the street door of the house. They exchanged enquiring glances. Kenneth rushed to the latticed window, opened it cautiously, and looked down into the narrow street.
Standing outside the house were a dozen Prussian infantrymen. A sergeant was about to hammer again upon the door. Beside him stood a lieutenant, drawn sword in hand. A crowd of inquisitive civilians stood at a respectful distance; while, from the windows of the houses on the opposite side of the street, the frightened inhabitants peeped timorously at the display of armed force outside the dwelling of the highly-respected Madame Hirondelle.
"What's up?" asked Rollo.
"Prussians. They're after us, old man."
"Nonsense! Why should they be?"
"Someone's given us away," declared Kenneth savagely. He realized that they were trapped. There was no means of escape along the roofs of the adjoining houses, no place in which to hide without being easily and ignominiously hauled out. Even had there been a chance of getting clear, Rollo's injured ankle had to be taken into consideration.
They heard the door being opened; the harsh voice of the German lieutenant interrogating Madame Hirondelle in execrable French; then the tramp of heavy boots as the file of soldiers entered the house and began to ascend the stairs.
Rollo sat up in bed. His companion stood by the side of the alcove, gripping the back of a chair.
Then came a heavy knock at the door of the room, as a harsh voice shouted:
"Englischemans, surrender; if not, we shoots!"
Then the door was pushed open a little way, and a spiked helmet thrust forward on the muzzle of a rifle. Finding that this emblem of German militarism was not the object of an attack, the lieutenant plucked up courage and dashed into the room, brandishing his sword and revolver like an eighteenth-century melodramatic pirate.
After him crowded the sergeant and most of the men, two privates being left to guard Madame Hirondelle, in order that she would not be able to communicate with the supposed spies.
Kenneth was roughly seized by the throat. His hands were grasped and tied behind his back. The sergeant then proceeded to ransack his pockets, without discovering any documents, incriminating or otherwise. The unexpended portion of Dick Dacres's loan was taken possession of by the lieutenant, whose avidity in grabbing the money seemed to suggest that there was but slight possibility of it finding its way into the coffers of the Imperial treasury.
Meanwhile Rollo had been ordered to get out of bed. His clothes, after being searched and examined, were handed to him.
Other German soldiers were busily engaged in ransacking the room. The bed was uncovered, the mattress cut open in the vain hope of finding incriminating evidence; the contents of cupboards and drawers were turned out upon the floor, the Prussians taking care to retain "souvenirs" of their exploit as they did so.
Greatly to his disgust and disappointment, the lieutenant's efforts to obtain proofs of the supposed spies' guilt were fruitless.
He gave an order. Soldiers surrounding the two lads urged them through the door and down the narrow stairs. Determined to make a good haul, the officer ordered the arrest of Madame Hirondelle, the concierge, and the two maid-servants; then, with much sabre-rattling, he led the prisoners through the streets.
A quarter of an hour later Kenneth found himself alone in a gloomy cell. The prospect was not a pleasing one. Even with a clear conscience as far as the charge of espionage went, the lad realized the terrible position in which he and Rollo were placed.
They were British subjects; they were not in uniform; they had no documents to prove the truth of their statement that they were corporals in the Belgian army. There was no one, excepting the thoroughly-terrified Madame Hirondelle, to speak a word in their favour.
For half an hour he paced the limited expanse of floor, pondering over the difficulties of the situation. Then, without any thought of attempting an escape, he began examining the walls and floor of his cell. The place was roughly twenty feet in length and nine in breadth. The walls were of brick, set in hard, black cement. They had, at some previous time, been coated with yellow limewash, but most of the colour had been worn off. The floor was paved with irregular stone slabs. Eight feet from the ground was a small unglazed window, with two rusty and slender vertical bars. Opposite the window was the door of worm-eaten oak.
The floor was half a dozen steps lower than the level of the ground without. A sentry was posted outside the window. Although standing erect, the only part of him visible from within was from his knees to his belt, so Kenneth knew that on that side the ground was about five or six feet above the floor of his cell.
It also appeared likely that the room was not generally used as a place of confinement. It had no furniture. On the stone floor were wisps of straw and hay. It might, but for the steps from the doorway, have been used as a stable.
"The Germans don't surely mean to keep me in this rotten hole," thought Kenneth. "It isn't fit for a dog."
Slowly the morning passed. At noon the sentry without was relieved. The sergeant's guard made no attempt to look through the window. The new sentry seemed ignorant of the presence of the English lad. There he stood, as rigid as a statue, while the minutes ran into hours. Not once did the grey-coated soldier "walk his beat". No one passed by. The sentry was to all intents and purposes posted in a totally unnecessary position.
Just as the clocks chimed the hour of two, the door of the cell was opened and a sergeant and file of Prussian infantrymen entered. Silently the non-commissioned officer pointed to the open door. Preceded and followed by the soldiers, Kenneth set out to be tried for his life.