He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.
"No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes."
"But the slippers are French."
"Which slippers?"
"The ones in your husband's bag."
She turned laughingly to Stewart.
"Have you been carrying a pair of my slippers all around Europe, Tommy?" she asked. "How did that happen?"
"I don't know. I packed in rather a hurry," answered Stewart, sheepishly.
"Where is the remainder of your baggage, madame?" asked the officer.
"At Brussels—at least, I hope so. I sent it there direct from Spa."
"Why did you do that?"
"In order to avoid the examination at the frontier."
"Why did not you yourself go direct to Brussels?"
"I wished to see my husband. I had not seen him for almost a month," and she cast Stewart a fond smile.
"Have you been recently married?"
"We have been married four years," the girl informed him, with dignity.
Stewart started to give some additional information about the family, but restrained himself.
The inspector looked at them both keenly for a moment, scratching his bearded chin reflectively. Then he took a rapid turn up and down the shed, his brow furrowed in thought.
"I shall have to ask you both to disrobe," he said, at last, and as Stewart started to his feet in hot protest, he added, quickly, "I have a woman who will disrobe Madame."
"But this is an outrage!" protested Stewart, his face crimson. "This lady is my wife—I won't stand by and see her insulted. I warn you that you are making a serious mistake."
"She shall not be insulted. Besides, it is necessary."
"I don't see it."
"That is for me to decide," said the other bluntly, and he put his whistle to his lips and blew two blasts.
A door at the farther end of the shed opened and a woman entered. She was a matronly creature with a kind face, and she smiled encouragingly at the shrinking girl.
"Frau Ritter," said the officer in German, "you will take this lady into the office and disrobe her. Bring her clothing to me here—all of it."
Again Stewart started to protest, but the officer silenced him with a gesture.
"It is useless to attempt resistance," he said, sharply. "I must do my duty—by force if necessary. It will be much wiser to obey quietly."
The girl rose to her feet, evidently reassured by the benevolent appearance of the woman.
"Do not worry, Tommy," she said. "It will be all right. It is of no use to argue with these people. There is nothing to do but submit."
"So it seems," Stewart muttered, and watched her until she disappeared through the door.
"Now, sir," said the officer, sharply, "your clothes."
Crimson with anger and humiliation, Stewart handed them over piece by piece, saw pockets turned out, linings loosened here and there, the heels of his shoes examined, his fountain-pen unscrewed and emptied of its ink. At last he stood naked under the flaring light, feeling helpless as a baby.
"Well, I hope you are satisfied," he said, vindictively.
With a curt nod, the officer handed him back his underwear.
"I will keep these for the moment," he said, indicating the little pile of things taken from the pockets. "You may dress.Yourclothes, at least, are American!"
As he spoke, the woman entered from the farther door, with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Stewart turned hastily away, struggling into his trousers as rapidly as he could, and cursing the careless immodesty of these people. Sullenly he laced his shoes, and put on his collar, noting wrathfully that it was soiled. He kept his back to the man at the table—he felt that it would be indecent to watch him scrutinizing those intimate articles of apparel.
"You have examined her hair?" he heard the man ask.
"Yes, Excellency."
"Very well; you may take these back."
Not until he heard the door close behind her did Stewart turn around. The officer was lighting a cigarette. The careless unconcern of the act added new fuel to the American's wrath.
"Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of all this?" he demanded. "Why should my wife and I be compelled to submit to these indignities?"
"We are looking for a spy," replied the other imperturbably, and addressed himself to an examination of the things he had taken from Stewart's pockets—his penknife, his watch, the contents of his purse, the papers in his pocket-book. He even placed a meditative finger for an instant on the two tiny metal clips which had come from the Cook ticket. But to reconstruct their use was evidently too great a task even for a German police agent, for he passed on almost at once to something else. "Very good," he said at last, pushed the pile toward its owner, and opened the passport, which he had laid to one side.
"That passport will tell you that I am not a spy," said Stewart, putting his things angrily back into his pockets. "That, it seems to me, should be sufficient."
"As far as you are concerned, it is entirely sufficient," said the other. "One can see at a glance that you are an American. But the appearance of Madame is distinctly French."
"Americans are of every race," Stewart pointed out. "I have seen many who look far more German than you do."
"That is true; but it so happens that the spy we are looking for is a woman. I cannot tell you more, except that it is imperative she does not escape."
"And you suspect my wife?" Stewart demanded. "But that is absurd!"
He was proud of the fact that he had managed to maintain unaltered his expression of virtuous indignation, for a sudden chill had run down his spine at the other's careless words. Evidently the situation was far more dangerous than he had suspected! Then he was conscious that his hands were trembling slightly, and thrust them quickly into his pockets.
"The fact that she joined you at Aachen seemed most suspicious," the inspector pointed out. "I do not remember that you mentioned her during your conversation with the ladies in the train."
"Certainly not. Why should I have mentioned her?"
"There was perhaps no reason for doing so," the inspector admitted. "Nevertheless, it seemed to us unusual that she should have come back from Spa to Aachen to meet you, when she might, so much more conveniently, have gone direct to Brussels and awaited you there."
"She has explained why we made that arrangement."
"Yes," and through half-closed eyes he watched the smoke from his cigarette circle upwards toward the lamp. "Conjugal affection—most admirable, I am sure! It is unfortunate that Madame's appearance should answer so closely to that of the woman for whom we are searching. It was also unfortunate that you should have met at the Kölner Hof. That hotel has not a good reputation—it is frequented by too many French whose business is not quite clear to us. How did it happen that you went there?"
"Why," retorted Stewart hotly, glad of the chance to return one of the many blows which had been rained upon him, "one of your own men recommended it."
"One of my own men? I do not understand," and the officer looked at him curiously.
"At least one of the police. He came to me at the Hotel Continental at Cologne to examine my passport. He asked me where I was going from Cologne, and I told him to Aix-la-Chapelle. He asked at which hotel I was going to stay, and I said I did not know. He said he would like to have that information for his report, and added that the Kölner Hof was near the station and very clean and comfortable. I certainly found it so."
The officer was listening with peculiar intentness.
"Why were you not at the station to meet your wife?" he asked.
"I did not know when she would arrive; I was told that the trains were all running irregularly," answered Stewart, prouder of his ability to lie well and quickly than he had ever been of anything else in his life.
"But how did she know at which hotel to find you?" inquired the officer, and negligently flipped the ash from his cigarette.
Stewart distinctly felt his heart turn over as he saw the abyss at his feet. How would she have known? Howcouldshe have known? What would he have done if he had really had a wife waiting at Spa? These questions flashed through his head like lightning.
"Why, I telegraphed her, of course," he said; "and to make assurance doubly sure, I sent her a postcard." And then his heart fell again, for he realized that the police had only to wire to Cologne to prove that no such message had been filed there.
But the officer tossed away his cigarette with a little gesture of satisfaction.
"It was well you took the latter precaution, Mr. Stewart," he said, and Stewart detected a subtle change in his tone—it was less cold, more friendly. "The wires were closed last night to any but official business, and your message could not possibly have got through. I am surprised that it was accepted."
"I gave it to the porter at the hotel," Stewart explained. "Perhaps it wasn't accepted, and he just kept the money."
"That may be. But your postcard got through, as you no doubt know. It evidently caught the night mail and was delivered to Madame this morning."
"Really," stammered Stewart, wondering desperately if this was another trap, "I didn't know—I didn't think to ask——"
"Luckily Madame brought it with her in her hand-bag," explained the other. "It offers a convincing confirmation of your story—the more convincing perhaps since you seem surprised that she preserved it. Ah, here she is now," and he arose as the door opened and the girl came in. "Will you not sit down, madame?" he went on, courteously. "I pray that both of you will accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience I have caused you. Believe me, it was one of war's necessities."
The girl glanced at the speaker curiously, his tone was so warm, so full of friendship; then she glanced at Stewart——
And Stewart, catching that glance, was suddenly conscious that his mouth was open and his eyes staring and his whole attitude that of a man struck dumb by astonishment. Hastily he bent over to re-tie a shoestring. But really, he told himself, he could not be blamed for being disconcerted—anybody would be disconcerted to be told suddenly that his most desperate lie was true! But how could it be true? How could there be any such postcard as the German had described? Was it just another trap?
"We understand, of course, that you were merely doing your duty," the girl's voice was saying; "what seemed unfair was that we should be the victims. Do I understand that—that you no longer suspect us?"
"Absolutely not; and I apologize for my suspicions."
"Then we are at liberty to proceed?"
"You cannot in any event proceed to-night. I will pass you in the morning. And I hope you will not think that any discourtesy was intended to you as Americans. Germany is most anxious to retain the good-will of America. It will mean much to us in this struggle."
"Most Americans are rather sentimental over Alsace-Lorraine," said Stewart, who had recovered his composure, and he fished for a cigar and offered one to the officer, who accepted it with a bow of thanks.
"That is because they do not understand," said the other, quickly. "Alsace and Lorraine belong of right to Germany. Of that there can be no question."
"But haven't you been rather harsh with them?"
"We have not been harsh enough. Had we done our duty, we would have stamped out without mercy the treason which is still rampant in many parts of those provinces. Instead, we have hesitated, we have temporized—and now, too late, we realize our mistake. The spy for whom we are searching at this moment comes from Strassburg."
Stewart started at the words; but the girl threw back her head and burst into delighted laughter.
"So you took us for spies!" she cried. "What a tale to tell, Tommy, when we get home!"
"There is but one spy, madame," said the officer; "a woman young and beautiful like yourself—accomplished, distinguished, a great linguist, a fine musician, of good family, and moving in the highest society in Alsace. She was on terms of intimacy with many of our officers; they did not hesitate to talk freely to her. Some of them, fascinated by her wit and beauty and wishing to prove their own importance, told her things which they had no right to tell. More than that, at the last moment she succeeded in getting possession for a time of certain confidential documents. But she had gone too far—she was suspected—she fled—and she has not yet been captured. But she cannot escape—we cannot permit her to escape. We know that she is still somewhere in Germany, and we have made it impossible for her to pass the frontier. A person who knows her is to be stationed at every post, and no woman will be permitted to pass until he has seen her. The man to be stationed here will arrive from Strassburg in an hour. As a final precaution, madame," he added, smiling, "and because my orders are most precise and stringent, I shall ask you and your husband to remain here at Herbesthal until morning. As I have said, you could not, in any event, go on to-night, for the frontier is closed. In the morning, I will ask my man from Strassburg to look at you, and will then provide you with a safe-conduct, and see that every possible facility is given you to get safely across the frontier."
"Thank you," she said; "you are most kind. That is why you are keeping all those people shut up in the station?"
"Yes, madame. They cannot pass until my man has seen them."
"But you are not searching them?"
"No; with most of them, the detention is a mere matter of obeying orders—one can tell their nationality at a glance. But to look at you, madame, I should never have supposed you to be an American—I should have supposed you to be French."
"My grandmother was French," explained the girl, composedly, "and I am said to resemble her very closely. I must also warn you that my sympathies are French."
The officer shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
"That is a great misfortune. Perhaps when you see how our army fights, we may claim some of your sympathy—or, at least, your admiration."
"It will fight well, then?"
"It will fight so well—it will prove so irresistible—that our General Staff has been able to prepare in advance the schedule for the entire campaign. This is the first of August. On the fifth we shall capture Lille, on the ninth we shall cross the Marne, and on the eleventh we shall enter Paris. On the evening of the twelfth, the Emperor will dine the General Staff at the Ritz."
Stewart stared in astonishment, not knowing whether to laugh or to be impressed. But there was no shadow of a smile on the bearded face of the speaker.
"You are not in earnest!" Stewart protested.
"Thoroughly in earnest. We know where we shall be at every hour of every day. There are at present living in France many Germans who are reservists in our army. Not one of these has been required to return to Germany. On the contrary, each of them has been instructed to report at a point near his place of residence at a certain hour of a certain day, where he will find his regiment awaiting him. For example, all German reservists living at Lille, or in the neighborhood, will report at noon of Wednesday next in the Place de la République in front of the prefecture, where the German administration will have been installed during the morning."
Stewart opened his lips to say something, but no words came. He felt intimidated and overborne.
But it was not at Stewart the officer was looking so triumphantly, it was at the girl. Perhaps he also, yielding to a subtle fascination, was telling things he had no right to tell in order to prove his importance!
The girl returned his gaze with a look of astonishment and admiration.
"How wonderful!" she breathed. "And it is really true?"
"True in every detail, madame."
"But this Lille of which you have spoken—is it a fortress?"
"A great fortress, madame."
"Will it not resist?"
"Not for long—perhaps not at all. If it does resist, it will fall like a house of cards. The whole world will be astonished, madame, when it learns the details of that action. We have a great surprise in store for our enemies!"
Stewart, glancing at his companion, noted with alarm the flash of excitement in her eyes. Would she push her questioning too far—would she be indiscreet; but the next instant he was reassured.
"It is most fascinating,—this puzzle!" she laughed. "I shall watch the papers for the fall of Lille. But I am very ignorant—I do not even know where Lille is."
"It is in the northwest corner of France, madame, just south of the Belgian frontier."
The girl looked at him perplexedly.
"But how can you reach it," she asked, slowly, "without crossing Belgium?"
"We cannot reach it without crossing Belgium."
From the expression of her face, she might have been a child shyly interrogating an indulgent senior.
"I know I am stupid," she faltered, "but it seems to me I have read somewhere—perhaps in Baedeker—that all the Powers had agreed that Belgium should always be a neutral country."
"So they did—Germany as well as the others. But such agreements are mere scraps of paper. The first blast of war blows them away. France has built along her eastern border a great chain of forts which are almost impregnable. Therefore it is necessary for us to strike her from the north through Belgium. Regretfully, but none the less firmly, we have warned Belgium to stand aside."
"Will she stand aside?"
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
"She must, or risk annihilation. She will not dare oppose us. If she does, we shall crush her into the dust. She will belong to us, and we will take her. Moreover, we shall not repeat the mistake we made in Alsace-Lorraine. There will be no treason in Belgium!"
Stewart felt a little shiver of disgust sweep over him. So this was the German attitude—treaties, solemn agreements, these were merely "scraps of paper" not worth a second thought; a small nation had no rights worth considering, since it lacked the power to defend them. Should it try to do so, it would "risk annihilation!"
He did not feel that he could trust himself to talk any longer, and rose suddenly to his feet.
"What are we going to do to-night?" he asked. "Not sit here in this shed, surely!"
"Certainly not," and the officer rose too. "I have secured a lodging for you with the woman who searched Madame. You will find it clean and comfortable, though by no means luxurious."
"That is very kind of you," said Stewart, with a memory of the rabble he had seen crowded into the waiting-room. And then he looked at his luggage. "I hope it isn't far," he added. "I've carried those bags about a thousand miles to-day."
"It is but a step—but I will have a man carry your bags. Here is your passport, sir, and again permit me to assure you of my regret. You also, madame!" and he bowed ceremoniously above her fingers.
Three minutes later, Stewart and his companion were walking down the platform beside the pleasant-faced woman, who babbled away amiably in German, while a porter followed with the bags. As they passed the station, they could see that it was still jammed with a motley crowd, while a guard of soldiers thrown around it prevented anyone leaving or entering.
"How fortunate that we have escaped that!" said Stewart. "Even at the price of being searched!"
"This way, sir," said the woman, in German, and motioned off into the darkness to the right.
They made their way across a net-work of tracks, which seemed to Stewart strangely complicated and extensive for a small frontier station, and then emerged into a narrow, crooked street, bordered by mean little houses. In front of one of these the woman stopped and unlocked the door with an enormous key. The porter set the bags inside, received his tip, and withdrew, while their hostess struck a match and lighted a candle, disclosing a narrow hall running from the front door back through the house.
"You will sleep here, sir," she said, and opened a door to the left.
They stepped through, in obedience to her gesture, and found themselves in a fair-sized room, poorly furnished and a little musty from disuse, but evidently clean. Their hostess hastened to open the window and to light another candle. Then she brought in Stewart's bags.
"You will find water there," and she pointed to the pitcher on the wash-stand. "I cannot give you hot water to-night—there is no fire. Will these towels be sufficient? Yes? Is there anything else? No? Then good-night, sir, and you also, my lady."
"Good-night," they answered; and for a moment after the door closed, stood staring at it as though hypnotized.
Then the girl stepped to the window and pulled together the curtains of white cotton. As she turned back into the room, Stewart saw that her face was livid.
His eyes asked the question which he did not dare speak aloud.
She drew him back into the corner and put her lips close against his ear.
"There is a guard outside," she whispered. "We must be very careful. We are prisoners still."
As Stewart stood staring, she took off her hat and tossed it on a chair.
"How tired I am!" she said, yawning heavily, and turning back to the window, she began to take down her hair.
The vision of that dark hair rippling down as she drew out pin after pin held Stewart entranced. And the curve of her uplifted arms was also a thing to be remembered! But what was it she proposed to do? Surely——
"If you are going to wash, you would better do it, Tommy," she said, calmly. "I shall be wanting to in a minute."
Mechanically, Stewart slipped out of his coat, undid his tie, took off his collar, pulled up his sleeves, and fell to. He was obsessed by a feeling of unreality which even the cold water did not dissipate. It couldn't be true—all this——
"I wish you would hurry, Tommy," said a voice behind him. "I am waiting for you to unhook my bodice."
Stewart started round as though stung by an adder. His companion's hair fell in beautiful dark waves about her shoulders, and he could see that her bodice was loosened.
"There are two hooks I cannot reach," she explained, in the most matter-of-fact tone. "I should think you would know that by this time!"
"Oh, so it'sthatbodice!" said Stewart, and dried his hands vigorously, resolved to play the game to the end, whatever it might be. "All right," and as she turned her back toward him, he began gingerly searching for the hooks.
"Come a little this way," she said; "you can see better," and, glancing up, Stewart suddenly understood.
They were standing so that their shadows fell upon the curtain. The comedy was being played for the benefit of the guard in the street outside.
The discovery that itwasa comedy gave him back all his aplomb, and he found the hooks and disengaged them with a dexterity which no real husband could have improved upon.
"There," he said; "though why any woman should wear a gown so fashioned that she can neither dress nor undress herself passes my comprehension. Why not put the hooks in front?"
"And spoil the effect? Impossible! The hooks must be in the back," and still standing before the window, she slowly drew her bodice off.
Stewart had seen the arms of many women, but never a pair so rounded and graceful and beautiful as those at this moment disclosed to him. Admirable too was the way in which the head was set upon the lovely neck, and the way the neck itself merged into the shoulders—the masterpiece of a great artist, so he told himself.
"I wonder if there is a shutter to that window?" she asked, suddenly, starting round toward it. "If there is, you would better close it. Somebody might pass—besides, I do not care to sleep on the ground-floor of a strange house in a strange town, with an open window overlooking the street!"
"I'll see," said Stewart, and pulling back the curtains, stuck out his head. "Yes—there's a shutter—a heavy wooden one." He pulled it shut and pushed its bolt into place. "There; now you're safe!"
She motioned him quickly to lower the window, and this he did as noiselessly as possible.
"Was there anyone outside?" she asked, in a low tone.
He shook his head. The narrow street upon which the window opened had seemed quite deserted—but the shadows were very deep.
"I wish you would open the bags," she said, in her natural voice. "I shall have to improvise a night-dress of some sort."
Although he knew quite well that the words had been uttered for foreign consumption, as it were, Stewart found that his fingers were trembling as he undid the straps and threw back the lids, for he was quite unable to guess what would be the end of this strange adventure or to what desperate straits they might be driven by the pressure of circumstance.
"There you are," he said, and sat down and watched her.
She knelt on the floor beside the bags and turned over their contents thoughtfully, laying to one side a soft outing shirt, a traveling cap, a lounging coat, a pipe and pouch of tobacco, a handful of cigars, a pair of trousers, a belt, three handkerchiefs, a pair of scissors. She paused for a long time over a pair of Stewart's shoes, but finally put them back with a shake of the head.
"No," said Stewart, "I agree with you. Shoes are not necessary to a sleeping costume. But then neither is a pipe."
She laughed.
"You will find that the pipe is very necessary," she said, and rising briskly, stepped to the wash-stand and gave face and hands and arms a scrubbing so vigorous that she emerged, as it seemed to Stewart, more radiant than ever. Then she glanced into the pitcher with an exclamation of dismay. "There! I have used all the water! I wonder if our landlady has gone to bed?"
Catching up the pitcher, she crossed rapidly to the door and opened it. There was no one there, and Stewart, following with the candle, saw that the hall was empty. They stood for a moment listening, but not a sound disturbed the stillness of the house.
The girl motioned him back into the room and closed the door softly. Then, replacing the pitcher gently, she caught up a pile of Stewart's socks and stuffed them tightly under the door. Finally she set a chair snugly against it—for there was no lock—and turned to Stewart with a little sigh of relief.
"There," she said in a low tone; "no one can see our light nor overhear us, if we are careful. Perhaps they really do not suspect us—but we must take no chances. What hour have you?"
Stewart glanced at his watch.
"It is almost midnight."
"There is no time to lose. We must make our plans. Sit here beside me," and she sat down in one corner against the wall. "We must not waste our candle," she added. "Bring it with you, and we will blow it out until we need it again."
Stewart sat down beside her, placed the candle on the floor and leaned forward and blew it out.
For a moment they sat so, quite still, then Stewart felt a hand touch his. He seized it and held it close.
"I am very unhappy, my friend," she said, softly, "to have involved you in all this."
"Why, I am having the time of my life!" Stewart protested.
"If I had foreseen what was to happen," she went on, "I should never have asked you to assist me. I would have found some other way."
"The deuce you would! Then I'm glad you didn't foresee it."
"It is good of you to say so; but you must not involve yourself further."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I am in great danger. It is absolutely necessary that I escape. I cannot remain till morning. I cannot face that inspection. I should be denounced."
"Yes," agreed Stewart; "that's clear enough."
"Well, I will escape alone. When the police come for us, they will find only you."
"And will probably back me against a wall and shoot me out of hand."
"Oh, no; they will be rough and angry, but they will not dare to harm you. They know that you are an American—they cannot possibly suspect you of being a spy. You can prove the truth of all your statements."
"Not quite all," Stewart corrected.
"Of your statements, at least, so far as they concern yourself."
"Yes—but I will have considerable difficulty explaining my connection with you."
"Oh, no," said the girl, in a low voice; "that can be easily explained."
"How?"
"You will say," she answered, her voice lower still, "that you met me at the Kölner Hof, that I made advances, that you found me attractive, and that I readily agreed to accompany you to Paris. You can say that it was I who suggested altering your passport—that you saw no harm in it—and that you knew absolutely nothing about me except that I was a—a loose woman."
Stewart's lips were trembling so that it was a moment before he could control his voice.
"And do you really think I would say that, little comrade?" he asked, hoarsely. "Do you really think anything on earth could compel me to say that!"
He heard the quick intake of her breath; then she raised his hand to her cheek and he felt the hot tears upon it.
"Don't you understand," he went on earnestly, "that we are in this together to the end—the very end? I know I'm not of much use, but I am not such a coward as you seem to think me, and——"
She stopped him with a quick pressure of the fingers.
"Don't!" she breathed. "You are cruel!"
"Not half so cruel as you were a moment ago," he retorted.
"Forgive me, my friend," she pleaded, and moved a little nearer. "I did not know—I am but a girl—I thought perhaps you would wish to be rid of me."
"I don't want ever to be rid of you," began Stewart, brokenly, drawing her closer. "I don't want ever——"
She yielded for an instant to his arm; for the fraction of an instant her head was upon his breast; then she drew herself away, and silenced him with a tap upon the lips.
"Not now!" she said, and her voice, too, was hoarse. "All we must think of now is to escape. Afterwards, perhaps——"
"I shall hold you to that!" said Stewart, and released her.
But again for an instant she bent close.
"You are a good man!" she whispered.
"Oh, no!" Stewart protested, though he was shaken by the words. "No better than the average!"
And then he suddenly found himself unable to go on, and there was a moment's silence. When he spoke again, he had regained his self-control.
"Have you a plan?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, and drew a quick breath, as of one shaking away some weakness. "The first part is that you should sit quite still until I tell you to light the candle."
"But what——"
"A good soldier does not ask questions."
"All right, general," said Stewart, and settled back against the wall, completely, ineffably happy. Never before, he told himself, had he known what happiness was; never before had the mere joy of living surged through his veins as it was doing now. Little comrade! But what was she doing?
He could hear her moving softly about the room; he could hear the rustle of what he took to be the bed-clothes; then the bed creaked as she sat down upon it. What was she doing? Why should she work in the dark, alone, without asking him to help? Was it because he could not help—was of so little use——
"You may light the candle now, my friend," she said, in a low voice.
Stewart had a match ready—had had it ready for long minutes!—and in a trice the wick was alight and the flame shot up clear and steady.
After one glance, he sprang in amazement to his feet, for there before him stood a youth—the handsomest he had ever seen—Peter Pan come to earth again!—his hand at the visor of his traveling-cap in mock salute.
"Well!" said Stewart, after a moment of amazed and delighted silence. "I believe you are a witch! Let me look at you!" and he caught up the candle and held it above his head.
The face upturned to his flamed crimson at the wonder and admiration in his eyes, but the dimple was sparkling at the corner of her mouth as she turned obediently before him and stepped slowly across the room. There is at the heart of every woman, however virginal and innocent, a subtle delight in knowing that men find her beautiful, and there could be no question of what Stewart thought at this moment.
At last she came to a stop facing him.
"Well?" she asked. "Will I do?"
"Will you do?" Stewart echoed, and Meredith's phrase recurred to him—"an imp in porcelain"—how perfectly it described her! "You are entirely, absolutely, impeccably—oh, I haven't adjectives enough! Only I wish I had a hundred candles instead of one!"
"But the clothes," she said, and looked doubtfully down at them. "Do I look like a boy?"
"Not in the least!" he answered, promptly.
Her face fell.
"But then——"
"Perhaps it is just because I know you're not one," he reassured her. "Let me see if I can improve matters. The trousers are too large, especially about the waist. They seem in danger of—hum!" and indeed she was clutching them desperately with one hand. "We will make another hole in that belt about three inches back," and he got out his knife and suited the action to the word. "There—that's better—you can let go of them now! And we'll turn up the legs about four inches—no, we'd better cut them off." He set the candle on the floor, picked up the scissors, and carefully trimmed each leg. "But those feet are ridiculous," he added, severely. "No real boy ever had feet like that!"
She stared down at them ruefully.
"They will seem larger when I get them full of mud," she pointed out. "I thought of putting on a pair of your shoes, but gave it up, for I am afraid I could not travel very far in them. Fortunately these are very strong!"
He sniffed skeptically, but had to agree with her that his shoes were impossible.
"There is one thing more," and she lifted her cap and let her tucked-up hair fall about her shoulders. "This must be cut off."
"Oh, no," protested Stewart, drawing back in horror. "That would be desecration—why, it's the most beautiful hair in the world!"
"Nonsense! In any case, it will grow again."
"Why not just tie it up under your cap?"
But she shook her head.
"No—it must come off. I might lose the cap—you see it is too large—and my hair would betray us. Cut it off, my friend—be quick."
She was right, of course, and Stewart, with a heavy heart, snipped away the long tresses. Then he trimmed the hair as well as he was able—which was very badly indeed. Finally he parted it rakishly on one side—and only by a supreme effort restrained himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her.
"Really," he said, "you're so ridiculously lovely that I'm in great danger of violating our treaty. I warn you it is extremely dangerous to look at me like that!"
She lowered her eyes instantly, but she could not restrain the dimple. Luckily, in the shadow, Stewart did not see it.
"We must make my clothing into a bundle," she said, sedately. "I may need it again. Besides, these people must not suspect that I have gone away disguised like this. That will give us a great advantage. Yes, gather up the hair and we will take it too—it would betray us. Put the cigars in your pocket. I will take the pipe and tobacco."
"Do you expect to smoke? I warn you that that pipe is a seasoned one!"
"I may risk a puff or two. I have been told there is no passport like a pipe of tobacco. No—do not shut the bags. Leave them open as though we had fled hurriedly. And," she added, crimsoning a little, "I think it would be well to disarrange the bed."
Stewart flung back the covers and rolled upon it, while his companion cast a last look about the room. Then she picked up her little bag and took out the purse and the two letters.
"Which pocket of a man's clothes is safest?" she asked.
"The inside coat pocket. There are two inside pockets in the coat you have on. One of them has a flap which buttons down. Nothing could get out of it."
She took the coins from the purse, dropped them into the pocket, and replaced the purse in the bag. Then she started to place the letters in the pocket, but hesitated, looking at him searchingly, her lips compressed.
"My friend," she said, coming suddenly close to him and speaking in the merest breath, "I am going to trust you with a great secret. The information I carry is in these letters—apparently so innocent. If anything should happen to me——"
"Nothing is going to happen to you," broke in Stewart, roughly. "That is what I am for!"
"I know—and yet something may. If anything should, promise me that you will take these letters from my pocket, and by every means in your power, seek to place them in the hands of General Joffre."
"General Joffre?" repeated Stewart. "Who is he?"
"He is the French commander-in-chief."
"But what chance would I have of reaching him? I should merely be laughed at if I asked to see him!"
"Not if you asked in the right way," and again she hesitated. Then she pressed still closer. "Listen—I have no right to tell you what I am about to tell you, and yet I must. Do you remember at Aix, I looked at you like this?" and she caught her lower lip for an instant between the thumb and little finger of her left hand.
"Yes, I remember; and you burst into tears immediately afterward."
"That was because you did not understand. If, in answer, you had passed your left hand across your eyes, I should have said, in French, 'Have we not met before?' and if you had replied, 'In Berlin, on the twenty-second,' I should have known that you were one of ours. Those passwords will take you to General Joffre himself."
"Let us repeat them," Stewart suggested. In a moment he knew them thoroughly. "Andthat'sall right!" he said.
"You consent, then?" she asked, eagerly.
"To assist you in every way possible—yes."
"To leave me, if I am not able to go on; to take the letters and press on alone," she insisted, her eyes shining. "Promise me, my friend!"
"I shall have to be governed by circumstances," said Stewart, cautiously. "If that seems the best thing to do—why, I'll do it, of course. But I warn you that this enterprise would soon go to pieces if it had no better wits than mine back of it. Why, in the few minutes they were searching you back there at the station, I walked straight into a trap—and with my eyes wide open, too—at the very moment when I was proudly thinking what a clever fellow I was!"
"What was the trap?" she asked, quickly.
"I was talking to that officer, and babbled out the story of how I came to go to the Kölner Hof, and he seemed surprised that a member of the police should have recommended it—which seems strange to me, too," he added, "now that I think of it. Then he asked me suddenly how you knew I was there."
"Yes, yes; and what did you say?"
"I didn't say anything for a minute—I felt as though I were falling out of a airship. But after I had fallen about a mile, I managed to say that I had sent you a telegram and also a postcard."
"How lucky!" breathed the girl. "How shrewd of you!"
"Shrewd? Was it? But that shock was nothing to the jolt I got the next minute when he told me that you had brought the postcard along in your bag! It was a good thing you came in just then, or he would have seen by the way I sat there gaping at him that the whole story was a lie!"
"I should have told you of the postcard," she said, with a gesture of annoyance. "It is often just some such tiny oversight which wrecks a whole plan. One tries to foresee everything—to provide for everything—and then some little, little detail goes wrong, and the whole structure comes tumbling down. It was chance that saved us—but in affairs of this sort, nothing must be left to chance! If we had failed, it would have been my fault!"
"But how could there have been a postcard?" demanded Stewart. "I should like to see it."
Smiling, yet with a certain look of anxiety, she stepped to her bag, took out the postcard, and handed it to him. On one side was a picture of the cathedral at Cologne; on the other, the address and the message:
Cologne, July 31, 1914.Dear Mary—Do not forget that it is to-morrow, Saturday, you are to meet me at Aix-la-Chapelle, from where we will go on to Brussels together, as we have planned. If I should fail to meet you at the train, you will find me at a hotel called the Kölner Hof, not far from the station.With much love,Bradford Stewart.
Cologne, July 31, 1914.
Dear Mary—
Do not forget that it is to-morrow, Saturday, you are to meet me at Aix-la-Chapelle, from where we will go on to Brussels together, as we have planned. If I should fail to meet you at the train, you will find me at a hotel called the Kölner Hof, not far from the station.
With much love,
Bradford Stewart.
Stewart read this remarkable message with astonished eyes, then, holding the card close to the candle, he stared at it in bewilderment.
"But it is my handwriting!" he protested. "At least, a fairly good imitation of it—and the signature is mine to a dot."
"Your signature was all the writer had," she explained. "Your handwriting had to be inferred from that."
"Where did you get my signature? Oh, from the blank I filled up at Aix, I suppose. But no," and he looked at the card again, "the postmark shows that it was mailed at Cologne last night."
"The postmark is a fabrication."
"Then it was from the blank at Aix?"
"No," she said, and hesitated, an anxiety in her face he did not understand.
"Then wheredidyou get it?" he persisted "Why shouldn't you tell me?"
"I will tell you," she answered, but her voice was almost inaudible. "It is right that you should know. You gave the signature to the man who examined your passport on the terrace of the Hotel Continental at Cologne, and who recommended you to the Kölner Hof. He also was one of ours."
Stewart was looking at her steadily.
"Then in that case," he said, and his face was gray and stern, "it was I, and no one else, you expected to meet at the Kölner Hof."
"Yes," she answered with trembling lips, but meeting his gaze unwaveringly.
"And all that followed—the tears, the dismay—was make-believe?"
"Yes. I cannot lie to you, my friend."
Stewart passed an unsteady hand before his eyes. It seemed that something had suddenly burst within him—some dream, some vision——
"So I was deliberately used," he began, hoarsely; but she stopped him, her hand upon his arm.
"Do not speak in that tone," she pleaded, her face wrung with anguish. "Do not look at me like that—I did not know—I had never seen you—it was not my plan. We were face to face with failure—we were desperate—there seemed no other way." She stopped, shuddering slightly, and drew away from him. "At least, you will say good-by," she said, softly.
Dazedly Stewart looked at her—at her eyes dark with sadness, at her face suddenly so white——
She was standing near the window, her hand upon the curtain.
"Good-by, my friend," she repeated. "You have been very good to me!"
For an instant longer, Stewart stood staring—then he sprang at her, seized her——
"Do you mean that you are going to leave me?" he demanded, roughly.
"Surely that is what you wish!"
"What I wish? No, no! What do I care—what does it matter!" The words were pouring incoherently from his trembling lips. "I understand—you were desperate—you didn't know me; even if you had, it would make no difference. Don't you understand—nothing can make any difference now!"
She shivered a little; then she drew away, looking at him.
"You mean," she stammered; "you mean that you still—that you still——"
"Little comrade!" he said, and held out his arms.
She lifted her eyes to his—wavered toward him——
"Halt!" cried a voice outside the window, and an instant later there came a heavy hammering on the street door.
The knocking seemed to shake the house, so violent it was, so insistent; and Stewart, petrified, stood staring numbly. But his companion was quicker than he. In an instant she had run to the light and blown it out. Then she was back at his side.
"The moment they are in the house," she said, "raise the window as silently as you can and unbolt the shutter."
And then she was gone again, and he could hear her moving about near the door.
Again the knocking came, louder than before. It could mean only one thing, Stewart told himself—their ruse had been discovered—a party of soldiers had come to arrest them——
He drew a quick breath. What then? He closed his eyes dizzily—what had she said? "A file of soldiers in front, a wall behind!" But that should never be! They must kill him first! And then he sickened as he realized how puny he was, how utterly powerless to protect her——
He heard shuffling footsteps approach along the hall, and a glimmer of light showed beneath the door. For an instant Stewart stared at it uncomprehending—then he smiled to himself. The girl, quicker witted than he, had pulled away the things that had been stuffed there.
"Who is it?" called the voice of their landlady.
"It is I, Frau Ritter," answered the voice of the police agent. "Open quickly."
A key rattled in a lock, the door was opened, and the party stepped inside.
Stewart, at the window, raised the sash and pulled back the bolt. He could hear the confused murmur of voices—men's voices——
Then he felt a warm hand in his and lips at his ear.
"It is the person from Strassburg," she breathed. "He has been brought here for the night. There is no danger. Bolt the shutter again—but softly."
She was gone again, and Stewart, with a deep breath that was almost a sob, thrust home the bolt. The voices were clearer now—or perhaps it was the singing of his blood that was stilled—and he could hear their words.
"You will give this gentleman a room," said the secret agent.
"Yes, Excellency."
"How are your other guests?"
"I have heard nothing from them, Excellency, since they retired."
Suddenly Stewart felt his hat lifted from his head and a hand rumpling his hair.
"Take off your coat," whispered a voice. "Open the door a little and demand less noise. Say that I am asleep!"
It was a call to battle, and Stewart felt his nerves stiffen. Without a word he threw off his coat and tore off his collar. Then he moved away the chair from before the door, opened it, and put one eye to the crack. There were five people in the hall—the woman, the secret agent, two soldiers, and a man in civilian attire.
"What the deuce is the matter out there?" he demanded.
It did his heart good to see how they jumped at the sound of his voice.
"Your pardon, sir," said the officer, stepping toward him. "I hope we have not disturbed you."
"Disturbed me? Why, I thought you were knocking the house down!"
"Frau Ritter is a heavy sleeper," the other explained with a smile. "You will present my apologies to Madame."
"My wife is so weary that even this has not awakened her, but I hope——"
"What is it, Tommy?" asked a sleepy voice from the darkness behind him. "To whom are you talking out there?"
"Your pardon, madame," said the officer, raising his voice, and doubtless finding a certain piquancy in the situation. "You shall not be disturbed again—I promise it," and he signed for his men to withdraw. "Good-night, sir."
"Good-night!" answered Stewart, and shut the door.
He was so shaken with mirth that he scarcely heard the outer door close. Then he staggered to the bed and collapsed upon it.
"Oh, little comrade!" he gasped. "Little comrade!" and he buried his head in the clothes to choke back the hysterical shouts of laughter which rose in his throat.
"Hush! Hush!" she warned him, her hand on his shoulder. "Get your coat and hat. Be quick!"
The search for those articles of attire sobered him. He had never before realized how large a small room may become in the dark! His coat he found in one corner; his hat miles away in another. His collar and tie seemed to have disappeared utterly, and he was about to abandon them to their fate, when his hand came into contact with them under the bed. He felt utterly exhausted, and sat on the floor panting for breath. Then somebody stumbled against him.
"Where have you been?" her voice demanded impatiently. "What have you been doing?"
"I have been around the world," said Stewart. "And I explored it thoroughly."
Her hand found his shoulder and shook it violently.
"Is this a time for jesting? Come!"
Stewart got heavily to his feet.
"Really," he protested, "I wasn't jesting——"
"Hush!" she cautioned, and suddenly Stewart saw her silhouetted against the window and knew that it was open. Then he saw her peer cautiously out, swing one leg over the sill, and let herself down outside.
"Careful!" she whispered.
In a moment he was standing beside her in the narrow street. She caught his hand and led him away close in the shadow of the wall.
The night air and the movement revived him somewhat, and by a desperate effort of will he managed to walk without stumbling; but he was still deadly tired. He knew that he was suffering from the reaction from the manifold adventures and excitements of the day, more especially the reaction from despair to hope of the last half hour, and he tried his best to shake it off, marveling at the endurance of this slender girl, who had borne so much more than he.
She went straight on along the narrow street, close in the shadow of the houses, pausing now and then to listen to some distant sound, and once hastily drawing him deep into the shadow of a doorway as a patrol passed along a cross-street.
Then the houses came to an end, and Stewart saw that they were upon a white road running straight away between level fields. Overhead the bright stars shone as calmly and peacefully as though there were no such thing as war in the whole universe, and looking up at them, Stewart felt himself tranquilized and strengthened.
"Now what?" he asked. "I warn you that I shall go to sleep on my feet before long!"
"We must not stop until we are across the frontier. It cannot be farther than half a mile."
Half a mile seemed an eternity to Stewart at that moment; besides, which way should they go? He gave voice to the question, after a helpless look around, for he had completely lost his bearings.
"Yonder is the Great Bear," said the girl, looking up to where that beautiful constellation stretched brilliantly across the sky. "What is your word for it—the Ladle, is it not?"
"The Dipper," Stewart corrected, reflecting that this was the first time she had been at loss for a word.
"Yes—the Dipper. It will help us to find our way. All I know of astronomy is that a line drawn through the two stars of the bowl points to the North Star. So that insignificant little star up yonder must be the North Star. Now, what is the old formula—if one stands with one's face to the north——"
"Your right hand will be toward the east and your left toward the west," prompted Stewart.
"So the frontier is to our left. Come."
She released his hand, leaped the ditch at the side of the road, and set off westward across a rough field. Stewart stumbled heavily after her; but presently his extreme exhaustion passed, and was followed by a sort of nervous exhilaration which enabled him easily to keep up with her. They climbed a wall, struggled through a strip of woodland—Stewart had never before realized how difficult it is to go through woods at night!—passed close to a house where a barking dog sent panic terror through them, and came at last to a road running westward, toward Belgium and safety. Along this they hastened as rapidly as they could.
"We must be past the frontier," said Stewart, half an hour later. "We have come at least two miles."
"Let us be sure," gasped the girl. "Let us take no chance!" and she pressed on.
Stewart reflected uneasily that they had encountered no outposts, and surely there would be outposts at the frontier to maintain its neutrality and intercept stragglers; but perhaps that would be only on the main-traveled roads; or perhaps the outposts were not yet in place; or perhaps they might run into one at any moment. He looked forward apprehensively, but the road lay white and empty under the stars.
Suddenly the girl stumbled and nearly fell. His arm was about her in an instant. He could feel how her body drooped against him in utter weariness. She had reached the end of her strength.
"Come," he said; "we must rest," and he led her unresisting to the side of the road.
They sat down close together with their backs against the wall, and her head for an instant fell upon his shoulder. By a supreme effort, she roused herself.
"We cannot stay here!" she protested.
"No," Stewart agreed. "Do you think you can climb this wall? We may find cover on the other side."
"Of course I can," and she tried to rise, but Stewart had to assist her. "I do not know what is the matter," she panted, as she clung to him. "I can scarcely stand!"
"It's the reaction," said Stewart. "It was bound to come, sooner or later. I had my attack back there on the road. Now I am going to lift you on top of the wall."
She threw one leg over it and sat astride.
"Oh, I have dropped the bundle," she said.
"Have you been carrying it all this time?" Stewart demanded.
"Why, of course. It weighs nothing."
Stewart, groping angrily along the base of the wall, found it, tucked it under his arm, scrambled over, and lifted her down.
"Now, forward!" he said.
At the second step, they were in a field of grain as high as their waists. They could feel it brushing against them, twining about their ankles; they could glimpse its yellow expanse stretching away into the night.
"Splendid!" cried Stewart. "There could be no better cover!" and he led her forward into it. "Now," he added, at the end of five minutes, "stand where you are till I get things ready for you," and with his knife he cut down great handfuls of the grain and piled them upon the ground. "There's your bed," he said, placing the bundle of clothing at one end of it; "and there's your pillow."
She sat down with a sigh of relief.
"Oh, how heavenly!"
"You can go to sleep without fear. No one can discover us here, unless they stumble right over us. Good-night, little comrade."
"But you?"
"Oh, I am going to sleep, too. I'll make myself a bed just over here."
"Good-night, my friend!" she said, softly, and Stewart, looking down at her, catching the starry sheen of her uplifted eyes, felt a wild desire to fling himself beside her, to take her in his arms——
Resolutely he turned away and piled his own bed at a little distance. It would have been safer, perhaps, had they slept side by side; but there was about her something delicate and virginal which kept him at a distance—and yet held him too, bound him powerfully, led him captive.
He was filled with the thought of her, as he lay gazing up into the spangled heavens—her beauty, her fire, her indomitable youth, her clear-eyed innocence which left him reverent and trembling. What was her story? Where were her people that they should permit her to take such desperate risks? Why had this great mission been confided to her—to a girl, young, inexperienced? And yet, the choice had evidently been a wise one. She had proved herself worthy of the trust. No one could have been quicker-witted, more ready of resource.
Well, the worst of it was over. They were safe out of Germany. It was only a question now of reaching a farmhouse, of hiring a wagon, of driving to the nearest station——
He stirred uneasily. That would mean good-by. But why should he go to Brussels? Why not turn south with her to France?
Sleep came to him as he was asking himself this question for the twentieth time.
It was full day when he awoke. He looked about for a full minute at the yellow grain, heavy-headed and ready for the harvest, before he remembered where he was. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again—the wheat-field, certainly—that was all right; but what was that insistent murmur which filled his ears, which never ceased? He sat hastily erect and started to his feet—then as hastily dropped to his knees again and peered cautiously above the grain.
Along the road, as far in either direction as the eye could see, passed a mighty multitude, marching steadily westward. Stewart's heart beat faster as he ran his eyes over that great host—thousands and tens of thousands, clad in greenish-gray, each with his rifle and blanket-roll, his full equipment complete to the smallest detail—the German army setting forth to war! Oh, wonderful, astounding, stupendous!—a myriad of men, moving as one man, obeying one man's bidding, marching out to kill and to be killed.
And marching willingly, even eagerly. The bright morning, the sense of high adventure, the exhilaration of marching elbow to elbow with a thousand comrades—yes, and love of country, the thought that they were fighting for their Fatherland—all these uplifted the heart and made the eye sparkle. Forgotten for the moment were poignant farewells, the tears of women and of children. The round of daily duties, the quiet of the fireside, the circle of familiar faces—all that had receded far into the past. A new life had begun, a larger and more glorious life. They felt that they were men going forward to men's work; they were drinking deep of a cup brimming with the joy of supreme experience!
There were jests and loud laughter; there were snatches of song; and presently a thousand voices were shouting what sounded to Stewart like a mighty hymn—shouting it in slow and solemn unison, marked by the tramp, tramp of their feet. Not until he caught the refrain did he know what it was—"Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles!"—the German battle-song, fit expression of the firm conviction that the Fatherland was first, was dearest, must be over all! And as he looked and listened, he felt his own heart thrill responsively, and a new definition of patriotism grouped itself in his mind.
Then suddenly he remembered his companion, and, parting the wheat, he crawled hastily through into the little amphitheater where he had made her bed. She was still asleep, her head pillowed on the bundle of clothing, one arm above her eyes, shielding them from the light. He sat softly down beside her, his heart very tender. She had been so near exhaustion; he must not awaken her——
A blare of bugles shrilled from the road, and from far off rose a roar of cheering, sweeping nearer and nearer.
The girl stirred, turned uneasily, opened her eyes, stared up at him for a moment, and then sat hastily erect.
"What is it?" she asked.
"The German army is advancing."
"Yes—but the cheering?"
"I don't know."
Side by side, they peered out above the grain. A heavy motor-car was advancing rapidly from the east along the road, the troops drawing aside to let it pass, and cheering—cheering, as though mad.
Inside the car were three men, but the one who acknowledged the salutes of the officers as he passed was a tall, slender young fellow in a long, gray coat. His face was radiant, and he saluted and saluted, and once or twice rose to his feet and pointed westward.
"The Crown Prince!" said the girl, and watched in heavy silence until the motor passed from sight and the host took up its steady march again. "Ah, well, he at least has realized his ambition—to lead an army against France!"
"It seems to be a devoted army," Stewart remarked. "I never heard such cheering."
"It is a splendid army," and the girl swept her eyes back and forth over the marching host.
"France will have no easy task—but she is fighting for her life, and she will win!"
"I hope so," Stewart agreed; but his heart misgave him as he looked at these marching men, sweeping on endlessly, irresistibly, in a torrent which seemed powerful enough to engulf everything in its path.
He had never before seen an army, even a small one, and this mighty host unnerved and intimidated him. It was so full of vigor, so self-confident, so evidently certain of victory! It was so sturdy, so erect, so proud! There was about it an electric sense of power; it almost strutted as it marched!
"There is one thing certain," he said, at last, "and that is that our adventures are not yet over. With our flight discovered, and Germans in front of us and behind us and probably on either side of us, our position is still decidedly awkward. I suppose their outposts are somewhere ahead."
"Yes, I suppose so," she agreed. "Along the Meuse, perhaps."
"And I am most awfully hungry. Aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"I have heard that whole wheat makes a delicious breakfast dish," said Stewart, who felt unaccountably down-hearted and was determined not to show it. "Shall we try some?"
She nodded, smiling, then turned back to watch the Germans, as though fascinated by them. Stewart broke off a dozen heads of yellow grain, rubbed them out between his hands, blew away the chaff, and poured the fat kernels into her outstretched palm. Then he rubbed out a mouthful for himself.
"But that they should invade Belgium!" she said, half to herself. "Did you hear what that man said last night—that a treaty was only a scrap of paper—that if Belgium resisted, she would be crushed?"
"Yes," nodded Stewart, "and it disgusted me!"
"But of course France has expected it—she has prepared for it!" went on the girl, perhaps to silence her own misgivings. "She will not be taken by surprise!"
"You don't think, then, that the Kaiser will dine in Paris on the twelfth?"
"Nonsense—that was only an empty boast!"
"Well, I hope so," said Stewart. "And wherever he dines, I hope that he has something more appetizing than whole wheatau naturel. I move we look for a house and try to get some real food that we can put our teeth into. Also something to drink."
"Yes, we must be getting forward," she agreed.
Together they peered out again above the grain. The massed column was still passing, shimmering along the dusty road like a mighty green-gray serpent.
"Isn't there any end to these fellows?" Stewart asked. "We must have seen about a million!"
"Oh, no; this is but a single division—and there are at least a hundred divisions in the German army! No doubt there is another division on each of the roads leading into Belgium. We shall have to keep away from the roads. Let us work our way back through the grain to that strip of woodland. No," she added, as Stewart stooped to pick up the bundle of clothing, "we must leave that. If we should happen to be stopped, it would betray us. What are you doing?"
Without replying, Stewart opened the bundle, thoughtfully selected a strand of the beautiful hair inside it and placed the lock carefully in a flapped compartment of his pocket-book. Then he re-tied the bundle and threw over it some of the severed stalks.
"It seems a shame to leave it," he said. "That is a beautiful gown—and the hair! Think of those barbarians opening the bundle and finding that lovely hair!"
The girl, who had been watching him with brilliant eyes, laughed a little and caught his hand.
"How foolish! Come along! I think I shall let you keep that lock of hair!" she added, thoughtfully.
Stewart looked at her quickly and saw that the dimple was visible.
"Thank you!" he said. "Of course I should have asked. Forgive me!"
She gave him a flashing little smile, then, bending low, hurried forward through the grain. Beyond the field lay a stretch of woodland, and presently they heard the sound of running water, and came to a brook flowing gently over a clean and rocky bed.
With a cry of delight, the girl dropped to her knees beside it, bent far over and drank deep; then threw off her coat, pushed her sleeves above her elbows, and laved hands and face in the cool water.