"Standing so beside the pool, breathing the incense of the roses, she thought of the dream"
"Standing so beside the pool, breathing the incense of the roses, she thought of the dream"
"Halt!" said her heart, alert; "who goes there?"
"It is I, Karen, wearing the strange, new name of Love——"
She lifted her head, drew one hand swiftly across her eyes as though to clear them, then stepped free from the arm that encircled her.
"Karen——"
"Yes, I—I do love you," she stammered—"with all—all my heart——"
"Halt!" rang out a voice like a pistol shot from the darkness.
The girl stood rigid; Guild sprang to her side. "Qui vive!" cried the voice.
"Belgium!" said Guild coolly.
"Then who goes there!—you!—below there in that garden?"
"Friends to Belgium," replied Guild in a quiet andvery grave voice. "Don't move, dearest," he whispered.
"What is happening?"
"I don't know, yet."
Presently, nearer the balustrade above them, the voice came again: "Is it Monsieur Guild?"
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Pardon. Will Monsieur come up to the terrace? I am watching the wall beyond the pool."
They ascended the stone steps; Karen moving lightly beside him. In the shadow of the clipped yews a dark form stirred.
"Pardon. I did not recognize Monsieur Guild nor Mademoiselle. There is trouble."
It was Schultz the herdsman; his rifle was in his hand and he wore two cartridge-belts crossed over his smock en bandoulière.
He touched his hat to Karen, but turned immediately toward the star-lit sky-line where the dark coping of the wall cut it.
"What is the trouble?" asked Guild with a sinking heart.
"God knows how it happened, Monsieur Guild—but there was bad blood tonight and hot heads full of it. Then, very far in the forest, a shot was fired."
"I heard it. What happened?"
"Listen, Monsieur! The Moresnet man and the boy, Jean Pascal, put their heads together. I don't know how it was, but even after what you said to us, and after Michaud told us to remain prudent and calm,somehow after we heard that shot we all, one by one, took down our guns; and after a little while we found ourselves together in the carrefour.
"And from there we went, without saying a word, to the Calvary on the hill pasture road. It was as though each of us understood without telling each other—without even hinting at a plan.
"And by and by we went down by the rivulet at the foot of the hill pastures, and there, as we expected, were two of the Yslemont refugees. They had their guns. And one of them had aspiked helmet."
"Go on," said Guild, compressing his lips.
"He had taken it near Trois Fontaines, not below the hill. We all examined it. We saw red, Monsieur. Then a calf which had escaped the Grey Wolves moved in the bushes near us. The Moresnet man caught it, and he and the shepherd, little Jean Pascal, took the dumb beast and tied it to a sapling near the road. Onourside of the boundary! But we all knew what might happen."
There was a silence; then Schultz said in a low, hoarse voice: "It was fated to be. We took both sides of the road in the long grasses of the ditches. And the calf bawled for company.
"The company came after a while—two Grey Wolves. First we heard the clink-clink of their horses' feet; then we saw their lances against the sky.
"They came on, picking their way. And of a sudden the electric breast-torch on one of them breaks out like a blinding star, plays over the road, thenlights up the calf which is terrified and backs into the hedge.
"He drives his lance-butt into the sod and gets out of his saddle. His comrade sits the other horse, pistol lifted, elbow on thigh. And there comes then another Uhlan, walking and leading his horse—three of the dirty brigands, Monsieur, across the border and on our side!"
"Go on."
"Eh bien—we bled them!"
"You killed them?"
"Yes, Monsieur—two there by the hedge in the grassy ditch; the other hung to his horse for a while—but came off sideways. One spur caught and his horse took him back that way—across the border."
"Go on."
"We took their schapskas. Jean Pascal wished to go across the border after more Wolves. He was crazy. And the blood made us all a little drunk. And then we found that the Moresnet man had gone. That chilled us."
He wiped his face with his sleeve, never taking his eyes from the wall across the garden.
"After that," he said, "we lay very still, watching. And in a little while an Uhlan crossed the hill pasture walking his horse slowly against the stars. Then there were others moving across the sky up there, and we also heard others on the road. So we have been quietly falling back into the forest where, if they follow, they shall not go back, please God!"
"Where is Michaud?"
"He was very angry, but, since the affair has really begun, he is with us, of course."
"Where is he?"
"He went to the house to find you an hour ago."
Guild bit his lip in silence. The stupidity of what had been done, the utter hopelessness of the situation sickened him.
The slow, groping peasant mind, occupied always with the moment's problem only, solving it by impulse and instinct alone—what could be done with such a mind—what could be hoped from it except under patiently inculcated military discipline.
Loosened from that, and defending its property from actual or threatened aggression, it became a furtive, fierce and quickened mind, alternately cunning and patiently ferocious. But of reason, or of logic, it reckons nothing, knows nothing.
Trouble had begun—trouble was abroad already in the star-light—moving, menacing.
"What is your word?" he asked bluntly.
"Yslemont."
He turned to Karen, who stood quietly beside him: "The ladies must leave this house tonight. There is no time at all to waste. There is going to be real trouble here by morning. And I am going to ask you if you will give these American ladies shelter tonight at Quellenheim. Will you, Karen?"
"Of course."
"From there they can go to the city of Luxembourgtomorrow, and so into Holland. But they ought to go now."
"And you, Kervyn?"
"I shall be very busy," he said. "Come back to the house, now."
They walked away together, moving quickly along the beech-woods; she with that youthful, buoyant step as lithe as a young boy's; he beside her with grave, preoccupied face and ears alert for the slightest sound.
"Kervyn?"
"Yes."
"Will you come back to Quellenheim, too?"
"I can't do that, dearest."
"May I ask you what you are going to do?"
"Dear, I don't know yet. I haven't formed any plan at all."
"Is it not very dangerous for you to remain here?"
"No, I think not.... That is—I shall see how this matter threatens to develop."
He felt her hand lightly on his arm, looked around, halted. She came to him, laid her cheek against his breast in silence.
"You must not be afraid for me, Karen."
"I shall try—to remember."
He lifted one of her hands. It was cold and delicately fragrant. He kissed it.
"The Bank at Diekirch is my address. I shall try to write you. I shall come back some day and marry you. Do you love me, Karen?"
"With all—all my—soul."
"And you will marry me?"
"Yes, Kervyn."
She looked up, her eyes brilliant as wet stars. And very gently, almost timidly, they exchanged their betrothal, lip to lip.
He drew her to him a little closer—held her so a moment, scarcely in contact. Then they turned again to the grassy ride and moved swiftly forward toward the drive.
Every light in the house had been lit, apparently. The automobile stood before the door; three forest waggons with their big fine horses were in line behind; and servants were loading them with American trunks, suitcases, and luggage of every description, under the active direction of Darrel.
When he saw Guild and Karen coming he called out: "Your luggage is packed! Mrs. Courland and Valentine and their two maids are filling hampers with bed linen and knick-knacks. You've heard what's happened, of course?"
"Yes," said Guild. "I don't think you had better waste any more time packing. Let the ladies get into the car and start. Michaud and I can gather up what's left of their effects and send it after them in the last waggon! Where is Michaud?"
"Talking to Mrs. Courland inside. Here he comes, now!——"
The white-haired forester came out behind Mrs. Courland, caught sight of Guild, and made a slight gesture expressing infinite despair.
"I know," said Guild. "I'll talk it over with you after the household leaves." And to Mrs. Courland, who appeared calm but a trifle dazed: "Miss Girard offers you Quellenheim for the night, and for longer if you desire."
"Please," said Karen, coming forward—"it would be very gracious of you to come. Will you, Mrs. Courland?"
"Thank you, dear—yes—it will be the greatest convenience. I don't know when we should arrive at Luxembourg if we started now." She took one of Karen's hands and turned to Guild: "What a terrible thing our people have done! Michaud came to tell us; Harry started everybody packing up. You will come with us, of course?"
"Perhaps later, thank you." He turned to Valentine who was coming out in hat and coat, followed by a pale-faced maid carrying both arms full of wraps.
"Please don't lose any time," said Guild, selecting wraps for Mrs. Courland and for Karen. "Are your servants ready?"
"Nobody is ready," said Valentine, "but everybody is here or in the hall, I think."
Guild gave his arm to Mrs. Courland and helped that active young matron spring into the touring car. Karen went next. Valentine and two maids followed; Guild slammed the door.
"All right!" he said curtly to the chauffeur, then, hat in hand, he said gaily: "Au revoir! A happy reunion for us all!"
As the car rolled out into the shining path of its own lamps Karen turned and looked back at him. And as long as he could see her she was looking back.
After the car followed two of the forest waggons, one filled with servants, the other loaded with luggage. Darrel came out of the house with the last odds and ends of property belonging to the Courlands and flung it pell-mell into the last waggon.
"Come on," he said briskly to Guild.
"No, go ahead, Harry. I'm stopping to talk with Michaud——"
"Well how are you going to get to Quellenheim?"
"When I'm ready to go I'll get there."
"You're not coming?"
"Not now."
Darrel came over and said, dropping his voice: "After this murdering business it won't do foryouto be caught here."
"I don't mean to be caught here. Don't worry—and get a move on!"
"What are you intending to do?"
"I don't know yet. Come, Harry, start that waggon!"
Darrel shrugged his shoulders, mounted the seat beside the driver, and the forest waggon rolled away into the darkness.
Guild was still looking after it, listening to Michaud's report of the sniping affair near Trois Fontaines, when he saw the figure of a man walking back from the direction the waggon had taken. The man walked with a visible limp.
"You idiot!" said Guild sharply as Darrel strolled up, his features blandly defiant.
"Go on with what you were saying to Michaud," insisted Darrel, unruffled by his reception.
"Come, Harry—this is downright damn foolishness. If you've let the waggon go on, you'll have to foot it to Quellenheim. You can't stay here!"
"Why?"
"Because, you infernal butter-in, you'll get mixed up in a particularly nasty mess. And it doesn't concern Yankees, this mess we're in, Michaud and I."
"Oh hell!" said Darrel; "go on and talk, Michaud!"
"Are you going to poke your nose into this?" demanded Guild.
"It's in now."
"See here, Harry! Your sticking by me is gratuitously silly and it annoys me. You don't have to. This isn't any of your business, this mess."
Darrel lighted a cigarette and sat down on the terrace steps. Guild glared at him.
"Will you go to the devil!" he snapped out.
"No, I won't."
Michaud, perplexed, had remained silent.
"If things go wrong they'll make a clean sweep of us all, I tell you," said Guild. "Once more, Harry, will you mind your own business?"
"No," said Darrel, blandly.
Guild turned to Michaud: "What were you saying?"
The forester, controlling his anger and emotion, continued the story of the sniper near Trois Fontaines.Then he outlined the miserable affair of the hill pasture.
"There remains for us now only two courses," he ended. "Either we turn franc-tireur and make our bivouac yonder in the forest, or we gather our people at The Pulpit, lie there tonight, and at daylight strike out for the Dutch frontier."
Guild nodded.
"There is a little hole in the rocks at The Pulpit—scarce large enough to be called a cave. Since the war came upon us, foreseeing necessity, my men have carried arms and provisions to The Pulpit—well hidden, Monsieur. I think, now, that it is a better refuge than this house."
The three men looked up at the house. Michaud made a hopeless gesture: "I supposetheywill destroy it, now. God knows. But if Monsieur Paillard be truly dead as we now believe, and his poor body lies rotting under the ruins of Wiltz-la-Vallée, then there is nobody to mourn this house excepting the old forester, Michaud.... And I think he has lived on earth too long."
He went slowly toward the house, entered it. One by one all the lighted windows grew dark. Presently he reappeared drawing the door-key from his pocket. Very deliberately he locked the door from the outside, looked in silence at the darkened house, and, facing it, quietly removed his hat.
The silent salute lasted but a moment; he put on his grey hat with the pheasant's feather sticking up behind, picked up his fowling-piece and hung it over oneshoulder, his big, weather-browned hand resting on the sling.
"Eh bien, Messieurs?" he inquired calmly.
"Bring in your men, Michaud," said Guild. "I know where The Pulpit is, but I couldn't find it at night. I'll wait at the carrefour for you." And, to Darrel: "What did you do with my luggage?"
"Sent it to Quellenheim."
"That rücksack, too?"
"Yes."
"Damnation," said Guild very calmly; "it had papers in it which are enough to hang anybody!"
"You'd better go and get it, then."
"I'll have to, that's all."
They walked across the lawn and out along the dark drive in silence. Where the ride crossed at the carrefour they halted. There was a dilapidated shrine there to Our Lady of Lesse. They seated themselves on the stone base.
"Harry," said Guild, "how long do you intend to follow me about in this absurd way?"
"I'd like to see you safe across the Dutch frontier."
"Thanks," said Guild drily.
"Don't mention it. I really can reconcile myself to your having your bally head knocked off in uniform, but this sort of thing seems rather ghastly."
"It is. Won't you go on to Quellenheim to oblige me?"
"I'll wait till tomorrow morning," replied Darrel pleasantly.
Guild was silent. They sat there for an hour or more scarcely exchanging a word. Then somebody whistled, cautiously, very near them, and another carefully modulated whistle answered.
"Who goes there!" came a challenging voice.
"Yslemont!"
"Our men," said Guild, rising.
Michaud came up in the darkness. "The shepherd, Jean Pascal, and Schultz, and the men of Yslemont are out there yet. Nothing I say affects them. They say that they need another Uhlan to bleed. Imbeciles!"
"Won't they obey you?"
"No, by God! The two sheep dogs of Jean are there, grave and wise as two big-eared devils squatting. And the half-crazed lad is teaching them to track Uhlans—making them sniff the bloody schapskas like a hunter who trains pups with a dead hare!"
He looked around at the dozen shadowy figures gathering in the carrefour; the star-light sparkled on guns and belts and slings, and here and there on the vizor of a casquette-de-chasse.
"The Grey Wolves," said Michaud, "can never find us in The Pulpit. If Monsieur is ready?"
"Quite ready," said Guild. And the shadowy file, led by Michaud, moved straight into the woods.
The stars had faded; a watery grey light glimmered through the forest. Deer crossed the grassy carrefour by the shrine, picking a dainty way toward forest depths; rabbits hopped homeward through dew-drenched ferns and bracken; a cock-pheasant saluted the dawn; the last wild boar still lingered amid the beech mast, rooting, coughing, following the furrows that his bristly snout was making while his furry bat-like ears, cocked forward, remained on duty, and his tail wriggled pleasurably.
The silent watchers aloft behind the rocky escarpement of The Pulpit, looking down through leafy branches to the carrefour, saw the last little roedeer trot past on his fastidious way; saw the last rabbit vanish in the warren; saw the lone boar lift his huge and shaggy head to listen with piggish suspicion, then turn and go, silent as some monstrous spectre.
From under hazel bushes pheasants stepped out to ruffle and preen and peck pensively among the fallen leaves, awaiting the promise of the sun, their white collars gleamed below their gorgeous heads; the sombresplendour of their plumage made brilliant spots along the ride. Here and there a hen-pheasant crept modestly about the business of breakfast. A blue and rosy jay alighted near, sign that the forest peace promised to endure.
After a long while far in the west the grey was touched with rose. Darrel, lying beside Guild, chin on his folded arms, stirred slightly.
"Sunrise," he said.
Michaud, on the other side, reared himself on his hands and lay watching the west.
"It is too early for the sun," he said. "That is a fire."
Pinker, ruddier, redder grew the western sky. Silent, intent, forester, garde-de-chasse, charcoal burner, strained their keen eyes.
Then a heavy sigh like a groan escaped Michaud.
"The Lodge," he said, hoarsely, under his breath. "Oh God, my master's home."
All around among the rocks men were drawing deep breaths, muttering, restless; their eyes were fixed like the eyes of caged wild things.
"The Grey Wolves," growled an old garde—"Ah, the cowards—the dirty Prussian whelps! Ah! Look at that; my God! Marie adored, Virgin of Lesse; stand by us now!"
Against the sky specks like tinsel twinkled; smoke became visible.
"House, stables, granneries, quarters, garage, all are on fire," said Michaud in a mechanical voice. Hisface was grey and without expression, his words accentless.
The smoke appeared further north.
"The cattle-barns and the hay-stacks," he went on monotonously.... Beyond are the green-houses, runs, dove-cotes, and our little shop.... They are now afire... Everything is on fire. Lesse is burning, burning.... The stubble beyond is burning.... And beyond that the nursery acres—the seedlings and the—Marie adored, Virgin of Lesse, have pity on my little trees—my nurslings—my darlings——"
"Hark!" whispered Guild. Far away up the ride horses were coming at a heavy trot; and now the noise of wheels became audible. And now below them two German dragoons cantered into view, carbines poised; a waggon passed—a strange grey vehicle driven by a grey-clad soldier wearing a vizorless forage cap. It was piled with dead pigeons and chickens. Behind that another waggon followed, all splashed with blood, and in it swayed and jolted the carcasses of dead pigs freshly killed, lurching and slipping over the crimsoned straw. Behind galloped six Uhlans, their lances perpendicular in the buckets, the cords from their cloth-covered schapskas bellying behind.
"Not a shot!" said Michaud in a perfectly distinct voice, pushing up the rifle of the old garde-de-chasse. "There is nothing to do now, nom de Dieu!—for the necks of our fowls are already wrung and the dead hogs are tasting their ownboudin. Our affair is with the living pigs."
After a few moments more dragoons came, trotting their superb horses along the ride, alertly scanning the woods to right and left as they passed, their carbines at a ready.
Waggons followed—hay waggons, carts loaded with potato sacks, straw, apples, bags of flour, even firewood and bundles of faggots—a dozen vehicles or more of every description.
"Ours," said Michaud in his emotionless tones. "What they could not take is burning yonder."
More grey dragoons closed the file of waggons, then a dozen Uhlans, who turned frequently in their saddles and kept looking back.
"Scoundrels!" muttered the garde-de-chasse, laying his rifle level; but Michaud turned on him and struck up the weapon.
"Thou!" he said coldly—"do thy duty when I tell thee, or I become angry."
Somebody said: "There are no more. We have not bled one single wolf!"
"Look yonder," whispered Guild.
Out into the carrefour stepped briskly eight or ten German officers, smart and elegant and trim in their sea-grey uniforms and their spiked helmets shrouded with grey so that there was not a glitter from point to spur.
A dozen non-commissioned officers followed, carrying two military rifles apiece.
The officers looked curiously at the shrine of Our Lady of Lesse, and the sad-faced Virgin looked back at them out of her carven and sightless eyes.
One by one the officers took posts at the four corners of the grassy clearing or on the steps of the shrine. They were laughing and conversing; some smoked; some inspected the rifles brought up by their non-com gun-bearers. The sun had not yet risen; the silvery smoke of the Silverwiltz marked its high waterfall below the gorge of the glen; fern fronds drooped wet to the wet dead leaves beneath, matted grasses glistened powdered with dew.
In the still grey air of morning the smoke from the German officers' pipes and cigars rose upward in straight thin bands; a jeweled bracelet on the wrist of an infantry major reflected light like a frost crystal.
The officers ceased their careless conversation; one by one they became quiet, almost motionless where they had taken their several positions. Behind them, stiff and erect, the non-coms stood with the spare guns, rifles or fowling-pieces.
An air of silent expectancy settled over the carrefour; officer and non-com were waiting for something.
Michaud had already divined; Guild knew; so did Darrel. Every woodsman in The Pulpit knew. Some of them were trembling like leashed dogs.
Then in the forest a sound became audible like a far halloo. Distant answers came through the woodland silence, from north, from south—then from west and east.
Guild whispered to Darrel: "They are driving the forest! They have a regiment out to beat it!"
The German officers at their stands no longer movedas much as a finger. Against the grey trees they were all but invisible.
Suddenly out into the carrefour stepped a superb red stag, ears alert, beautiful head half turned at gaze. Instantly a rifle spoke; and the magnificent creature was down in the ride, scuffling, scrambling, only to fall and lie panting with its long neck lifted a little.
Crack! The antlered head fell.
Then out of the wood trotted three bewildered pigs—an old boar, a yearling on which the stripes were still visible, and a huge fierce sow. A ripple of rifle shots checked them; the old boar stood swinging his great furry head right and left; the yearling was down, twitching; the sow ran, screaming horribly. Two shots followed; the old boar kneeled down very quietly like a trick-horse in a circus, still facing his enemies. He did not look as though he were dead.
The yearling had ceased its twitching; the sow was down, too, a great lump of coarse black fur in the ditch.
Then the rifles began again; a company of little roe deer whirled into the ride and went down or stumbled with delicate limbs dangling broken, or leaped to a height incredible in the agony of a death wound.
Pell-mell after them galloped a whole herd of red deer; the German rifles rattled steadily. Now and then blasts from fowling-pieces dropped running or incoming pheasants, cock and hen alike; or crumpled up some twisting rabbit or knocked a great hare head over heels.
Faster and faster came the terrified wild things, stag, roe, boar, and hare; steadily the German rifles crackedand rattled out death; thicker and swifter pelted the meteor flight of pheasants; birds of all sorts came driving headlong in their flight; big drab-tinted wood-pigeons, a wild duck or two, widgeon and mallard; now and then a woodcock fluttered past like some soft brown bat beating the air; now and then a coq-de-la-bruyere, planing on huge bowed wings above collapsed and fell heavily to the loose roar of the fowling-pieces.
Crippled, mutilated creatures were heaped along the ride; over them leaped their panic-stricken comrades only to stumble in the rifle-fire and lie struggling or inert.
A veil of smoky haze made the carrefour greyer now, through which at intervals a dying stag lifted its long neck from the shambles about him or some strong feathered thing beat its broken wings impotently upon the grass.
Once a great boar charged, and was shot to pieces, spattering the steps of the shrine with blood. Once a wounded hare dragged its tortured body to the shrine, as though for sanctuary. A non-com swung it crashing against the granite cross.
And now a more sinister thing occurred. Out from the forest, amid the stampeding game, reeled a man! His blue smock hung in ribbons; one bleeding fist grasped a rifle; the cartridges en bandoulière glittered.
For a second he stood there, swaying, panting, bewildered in the smoke haze; then three non-coms fired at him at once.
At that he straightened up, stood so for a second asthough listening, then he took one uncertain step and pitched into a patch of briers on his face.
Presently some German foot-soldiers appeared in the ride, moving cautiously, scanning every ditch, every hollow, every thicket, their rifles poised for a snap-shot. A roebuck floundered up and went off before them like the wind, unnoticed. Then one of the soldiers fired, and a boy jumped out from behind a hazel bush and started to run along the edge of the woods. He was followed by two sheep dogs.
"Jean Pascal!" said Michaud calmly. "May God pardon him now."
As the little shepherd ran, the soldiers stood and fired at him, aiming carefully. They broke his leg as he passed the carrefour. The lad raised himself from the ground to a sitting position and was sobbing bitterly, when they shot him again. That time he fell over on his side, his hands still covering his dead and tear-wet face. His dogs trotted around him, nuzzling him and licking his hands. An officer shot them both.
Schultz broke cover in a few moments, his rifle at his cheek; and, dropping to one knee in the ride, he coolly opened fire on the officers by the shrine. But he had time only for a single shot which jerked a spiked helmet from a cavalry major's clipped head. Then they knocked him flat.
As the herdsman lay gasping in the roadway with a bullet in his stomach, looking with dull and glazing eyes at the rifle flashes, three men from Yslemont—blackened,haggard, ragged creatures—burst out, fighting like wildcats with the beaters behind them.
Two were bayoneted and clubbed to death in the briers; the last man ran like a crazed hare, doubling, dodging, twisting among the trees where the rifle hail filled the air with twigs and splinters and tattered leaves.
After him lumbered a dozen foot-soldiers, clumping along in their hob-nailed ammunition boots. Then, high above on The Pulpit, Guild spoke sharply to Michaud, who gave a jerk to his white head and made a little gesture to the others behind him.
"Now," added Guild in a low voice.
"Fire," said Michaud calmly.
The rocky glen roared with the volley. The foot-soldiers below halted in astonishment and looked up. One fell sideways against a tree; another dropped to his knees and remained motionless, the spike of his helmet buried deep in the soft earth.
They were shouting down by the carrefour now; clear, mellow whistle signals sounded persistently. Horses were coming, too; the ride reverberated with their galloping. And all the while The Pulpit resounded with the rifle-fire of its little garrison, and soldiers were dropping along the carrefour and the ride.
"The Pulpit resounded with the rifle-fire of its little garrison"
"The Pulpit resounded with the rifle-fire of its little garrison"
"Pigs of Prussians!" shouted the old garde-de-chasse; "does a Belgian game-drive suit you now! Ah, scoundrels, bandits, sound theMorton your imbecile whistles. For the swine of the North are dying fast!"
"Be silent," said Michaud coldly. "You tarnish your own courage!"
Guild and Darrel had taken rifles; they stood firing down at the carrefour where the horses of the Uhlan advanced guard were plunging about in disorder under a confusion of lances and fluttering pennons.
But the confusion lasted only a few moments; horsemen whirled their mounts and cleared out at full speed; the carrefour was empty of officers now; not a German was visible in the early sunshine, only the steady clatter of their rifle-fire continued to pelt the heights where bullets cracked and smacked on the rocks.
"Enough," said Michaud quietly. "It is time to leave. André, bring thou a bar to me."
A charcoal burner ran to the hole in the rocks and drew out a crowbar. Michaud took it, shoved it under the edge of the ledge, found a fulcrum, motioned the men back.
Two other men threw their weight on the bar; the ledge lifted easily. Suddenly the entire parapet gave way, crashing like an avalanche into the glen below.
"They shall need wings who follow us," said the old man grimly. "Monsieur," turning calmly to Guild, "if we cross the Dutch border unarmed, will they interne us?"
"No, I think not."
"And from there we may be free to find our way to the colours?"
"Yes."
"By sea?"
"By land and sea to Dunkirk. I know of no easier or quicker way."
"Monsieur goes with us?"
"First I must stop at Quellenheim." He added, in a low voice: "By mistake my papers were sent there last night. Our King must see those papers."
"Bien," said Michaud. "We bivouac near Quellenheim tonight—time for a crust, Monsieur, while you go to the house and return. Is it agreeable to Monsieur?"
"Perfectly." And, to Darrel: "Take your chance while it remains and join the Courlands when they leave Quellenheim. Will you promise?"
"I'll see," said Darrel, carelessly tossing his rifle across his shoulder and stepping into the silent file of men which was already starting across the ridge.
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night before they bivouacked without fires in the woods behind the Lodge at Quellenheim.
The circuitous forest route had wearied the men; they threw themselves on the dead leaves and moss; some slept where they lay, others groped in sacks with toil-stiffened fingers searching for crusts, which they munched slowly, half asleep.
Guild drew Darrel and Michaud aside.
"To go by Luxembourg and Holland is too long and too uncertain," he said. "If we could cross the railway beyond Trois Fontaines before daylight we should have a clear country before us to Antwerp."
It had been days since the household at Lesse had heard any war news, but Darrel recollected that there had been rumours of a German drive toward Antwerp.
Michaud nodded. "It is possible," he said. "Brussels they may have taken; I don't know; but Antwerp, never! Iknow, Monsieur; I served my time with the artillery in the Scheldt forts. No German army could pass the outer ring of fortresses; the countrycan be flooded. Also our King is there with his Guides and Lancers and Chasseurs-à-cheval; the entire army is there. No, Monsieur, Antwerp is open to us if you desire to take us there."
"I do," said Guild. "It is the better way for all of us if the country still remains clear. It is better for us than to engage in a Chasse aux Uhlans. If I could lead a dozen sturdy recruits into Antwerp it would be worth while. And, except for the post at Trois Fontaines and the troops patrolling the railway, I can not see why the country is not open to us north of Liège."
"I know this country. It is my country," said Michaud, "and troops or no troops I can take you across the railroad before daylight." He shrugged his massive shoulders: "What is a Prussian patrol to a head forester?"
"You believe you can do it?"
"I pledge my honour, Monsieur."
Guild looked at Darrel: "I wish I knew whether there has been a drive toward Antwerp. If there has been it must have come from the sea by Ostend. But I do not believe Ostend has been taken." He turned to Michaud: "If the country is clear, why could we not pick up more men en route? Why should we not recruit in every hamlet, every village?"
"Mon Dieu, Monsieur, if there are hardy companions willing to go with the ragged men of the forest, well and good. Yet I could wish for at least one uniform among us. That represents authority and gives security."
Guild said thoughtfully: "I have an officer's uniform of the Guides among my luggage."
"Lord!" exclaimed Darrel, "you brought it with you?"
"There was to have been a regimental dinner in Brussels in September. I was asked last June, and they requested me to wear uniform. I had my uniform, so I packed it."
"Then it is there in your luggage at Quellenheim!"
"Yes."
"Well," said Darrel heartily, "I'm devilish glad of it. If they catch you in uniform they can't court-martial you with a jerk of their thumbs."
"I'm not worrying about that," said Guild carelessly, "but," looking at Michaud, "if you think a reserve officer in uniform is likely to encourage recruiting, I certainly shall use my uniform. You know your own people better than I do. I leave it to you, Michaud."
"Then, Monsieur, wear your uniform. It means everything to us all; we honour and respect it; it represents authority; better still, it reassures our people. If an officer of the Guides is seen in charge of a batch of recruits, no young man, whose class has been summoned to the colours, would entertain any misgivings. Nor dare anybody hang back! Our women would jeer and ridicule them."
"Very well," said Guild. "Now take me as far as the wood's edge where I can see the house at Quellenheim. Wait for me there and guide me back here, for I never could find this dark bivouac alone."
"Follow, Monsieur," said the old man simply.
In single file the three men moved forward through the darkness, Michaud leading without hesitation, Guild following close, and Darrel bringing up the rear.
In a few minutes the bluish lustre of the stars broke through the forest's edge. An overgrown ride ran westward; beyond, the highway from Trois Fontaines bisected it; and out of this curved the Lodge road.
It was dark and deserted; and when Guild came in sight of the Lodge, that, too, was dark.
Up the long avenue he hastened to the house; the fountain splashed monotonously in the star-light; the circle of tall trees looked down mournfully; the high planets twinkled.
He walked around the house, hoping to find a light in the kitchen. All was black, silent, and wrapped in profoundest shadow.
He picked up a few pebbles from the driveway, counted the windows until he was certain which one was Karen's. Her window was open. He tossed a pebble against it; and then another into the room itself.
Suddenly the girl appeared at the window.
"Karen!" he called. She leaned out swiftly, her braided hair falling to the sill.
"Kervyn!" she whispered.
"Dear, I've only a moment. Could you come down and let me in without waking the others?"
"The others? Kervyn, they have gone!"
"Gone!"
"Everybody's gone! A patrol of hussars galloped here from Trois Fontaines and ordered them across the Dutch frontier. I felt dreadfully; but there was nothing to do. So poor Mrs. Courland and her daughter and her servants have gone on toward Luxembourg with all their luggage. I'm here alone with the Frau Förster. Shall I let you in?"
"Did my luggage go to Luxembourg?"
"No; it is in the room you occupied."
"Then come down quickly and let me in," he said. "If there are German patrols abroad I don't care to be caught here."
The girl disappeared; Guild went to the front door and stood looking down the driveway and listening to catch any warning sound.
The next moment the door behind him opened and Karen's trembling hands were in his.
He gazed down into the pale face framed by its heavy braids. In her slim nightdress and silken chamber robe she appeared very girlish.
"What has happened, Kervyn? Your clothes are torn and muddy and you look dreadfully white and tired."
"Karen, they burned Lesse this morning."
"Oh!" she gasped.
"Everything at Lesse is in ashes. Some of the men are dead. The survivors are in the woods behind your house waiting for me."
She clung to his arm as they entered the house; Guild picked up one of the lighted candles from the oak table.She took the other and they ascended the stairs together.
"There was sniping," he said. "That always brings punishment to innocent and guilty alike. Lesse is a heap of cinders; they drove the forest and shot the driven game from the steps of the carrefour shrine. Men fell there, too, under their rifles—the herdsman, Schultz, the Yslemont men, the little shepherd lad with both his dogs. When their bearers came our way we fired on them."
"You!Oh, Kervyn! It means death if they find you!"
"I shall not be found." He took her by the hands a moment, smiled at her, then turned swiftly and entered his room holding the candle above his head.
After his door had remained closed for a few moments she knocked.
"Kervyn," she called, "I am frightened and I am going to dress."
"No need of that," came his voice; "I shall be gone in five minutes."
But she went away with her lighted candle and entered her room. The travelling gown she wore from England lay ready; boots, spats, and waist.
Swiftly she unbraided and shook out her hair and twisted it up again, her slim fingers flying. A sense of impending danger seized and possessed her; almost feverishly she flung from her the frail night garments she wore, and dressed with ever-increasing fear of something indefinitely menacing but instant. What it mightbe she did not even try to formulate in thought; but it frightened her, and it seemed very, very near.
She dragged on her brown velvet hat and pinned it, and at the same moment she heard a sound in the hallway which almost stopped her heart.
It was the ringing step of a spurred boot.
Terrified, she crept to her door, listened, opened a little way. Near the stair-head a candle shone, its yellow light glimmering on the wall of the passage. Then she heard Guild's guarded voice:
"Karen?"
"Y-yes," she faltered in amazement as a tall figure turned toward her clothed in the complete uniform of the Guides.
"Kervyn! Is ityou? Why are you in that uniform?" She came toward him slowly, her knees still tremulous from fear, and rested one hand on his arm.
"Dearest, dearest," he said gently, "why are you trembling? There is no reason for fear. I am in uniform because I shall attempt to take a few recruits and volunteers across the railway line tonight. We are going to try to make Antwerp, which is a quicker, and I think a surer, route than through Luxembourg and Holland. Besides, theymightinterne us. They would without a doubt if I were in uniform and if the Lesse men came to the frontier with their guns and bandoulières."
"Kervyn, howcanyou get to Antwerp? You can'twalk, dear!"
"We'll start on foot, anyway," he said cheerfully."Now I must go. They're waiting. Why did you dress, Karen?"
"I don't know." She looked up at him in a dazed way. "I wanted to be with you."
"I'm going back to the forest, dear."
"Could I come?"
"No. I don't want you to be out at night. There's only a fireless camp there and a dozen ragged and dirty men. Besides, there might be some sort of trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Not likely. Still theremightbe patrols out from Trois Fontaines, even from Lesse. I don't know. Michaud says he can take us across the railway line before daylight. If he can do that I think we shall find the country clear beyond. Anyway, we'll know soon. Now I must say good-bye."
She laid her cold hands in his, tried to speak, but could not. Then, of a sudden, her fingers gripped his in terror; there came the rushing swish of an automobile around the gravel circle outside, a loud resonant humming, a sharp voice speaking in German, a quick reply in the same tongue.
"The—the valet's room. Quick!" she gasped, pushing him backward across the room and through the doorway. Behind him the swinging leather door closed silently again; the girl stood rigid, white as a sheet, then she walked to the oak table, picked up a book, and dropped into the depths of a leather arm-chair.
Outside the mellow whirr of the motor had ceased; the door of the car closed with a click; quick, firm stepsascended the path; there came a low jingling sound, the clash of metal, then a key was rattled in the outer lock, turned sharply, and the door creaked open.
Karen rose to her feet. Every atom of colour had fled her cheeks.
"Karen!"
"You?" she said in a ghost of her own voice.
Kurt von Reiter seemed astonished. He came forward very quickly, a tall, thin, faultless figure moulded perfectly into his tight sea-grey uniform. Bending only a very little from the waist as though too tightly buttoned in, he bowed above the icy hand she extended, paid his respects with flawless courtesy, straightened up, placed his shrouded spiked helmet on the table.
"I had scarcely expected to find you awake," he said. "It is after two o'clock in the morning."
She made a supreme effort at self-control.
"I have been a trifle nervous, Kurt. There was trouble at Lesse Forest last evening."
"Yes. Who told you?"
"I was there."
"At Lesse!"
"Yes, a guest of Mrs. Courland—an American lady."
"I know about her. She is a friend of Mr. Guild."
Karen nodded; a painful and fixed smile quivered in her colourless lips.
"Was Mr. Guild there also?" inquired von Reiter.
"Yes."
"He left with the others, I suppose."
She said: "Everybody was in a panic. I invitedthem to come here, but a patrol from Trois Fontaines galloped up and ordered them to go through Luxembourg—across the Dutch frontier. It seemed very harsh."
The girl had seated herself again; von Reiter drew up a chair beside the table opposite her and sat down. Candle light played over his dry, sandy-blond face and set his blue eyes glittering.
"Are you well, Karen?"
"Quite, thank you. And you?"
"God be thanked, in perfect health." He did not mention three broken ribs still bandaged and which had interfered with the perfectly ceremonious bow of a German officer.
He said: "I took this opportunity to come. It was my first chance to see you. Been travelling since noon."
"You—remain tonight?"
"I can not. I came for one reason only. You know what it is, Karen."
She did not answer.
He waited a moment, looked absently around the room, glanced up at the stag's antlers, then his gaze returned to her.
"Were you much frightened by what happened at Lesse?" he asked. "You do not look well."
"I am well."
"Did you experience any trouble in leaving England?"
"Yes, some."
"And Mr. Guild? Was he—useful?"
"Yes."
Von Reiter gazed at the girl thoughtfully. One elbow rested on the table corner, the clenched fist supporting his chin. In the other hand he continued to crumple his gloves between lean, powerful, immaculate fingers.
"Karen," he said, "did you bring with you whatever papers you happened to possess at the time?"
After a moment the girl answered in a low voice: "No."
"Did you destroy them?"
"No."
"What became of them?" he insisted. A mottled flush gathered on his cheek-bones; after a few seconds the carefully scrubbed features of the man grew pink.
"What papers had you?" he asked.
She looked up at him in silence and a deeper colour stained his face so that in contrast his pale mustache, en croc, and his clipped hair appeared almost white.
"Kurt," she said, "how could you permit me to be involved in such matters?"
"Karen, do you imagine I supposed that war with England was imminent? I never dreamed that England would intervene! And when she did, and when it was already too late to reach you, the anxiety concerning you, and concerning what papers might still be passing from the Edmeston Agency through your hands, nearly drove me insane."
"Yet you instructed me to bring back with me any papers I might have in my possession."
"I tell you I did not count on war with England.Nobody did. I meant only that you were to bring with you what papers you had when you returned. Did not Grätz instruct you to destroy your papers?"
"No."
Von Reiter's lean jaws snapped. "Then what did you do with them?"
"I put them into my satchel. On board the steamer the satchel was opened and the papers taken."
Anger, apprehension, twitched at his thin lips; then a deeper emotion softened the grim lines of his features.
"God be thanked," he said, "that you were not involved in England. It was a living nightmare to me—that constant uncertainty concerning you. I could not reach you; I could do nothing, make no arrangements. Cipher code was forbidden even from neutral countries. It was only at the last moment I found a secret wireless lane still open to us. In that way I managed to notify Grätz that this man Guild was on his way to find you and bring you back here; that no more papers were to be sent through you to me; and that what you had were to be destroyed. Did you hear from him at all?"
"He telephoned that my maid had been arrested on a serious charge and that I was to leave Hyacinth Villa at once with Mr. Guild. He said nothing about papers. But I remembered what I had promised you, and I put into my satchel what papers I had.... They nearly lost me my life," she added, gazing steadily at him.
"Do you mean to say that you knew the papers werecompromising and still you undertook to bring them? Were you insane to attempt such a thing?"
"Had I not promised you, Kurt?"
"Circumstances alter conditions and absolve promises however solemn. Common sense decides where honour is involved."
She flushed brightly: "There I am more English than German, Kurt. A promise is a promise, and not"—she looked at him musingly—"not what the British press reproaches us for calling a 'scrap of paper.'"
He said grimly: "When a supposed friend suddenly aims a blow at you, strike first if you can and discuss the ethics afterward. We tore up that 'scrap of paper' before the dirty fingers of England could clutch it, that's all."
"And lost the world's sympathy. Oh, Kurt!"
"But we retained the respect born of fear. We invaded Belgium before the others could do it, that's all.... I do not care to discuss the matter. The truth is known to us and that is sufficient."
"It is not sufficient if you desire the sympathy of the world."
Von Reiter's eyes became paler and fixed and he worried the points of his up-brushed mustache with powerful, lean fingers.
"Make no mistake," he said musingly. "America's turn will come.... For all the insolence she has offered in our time of need, surely, surely the time is coming for our reckoning with her. We have not forgotten von Diederichs; we shall not forget this crisis.All shall be arranged with method and order when we are ready.... Where is that American—or Belgian, as he seems to think his honour of the moment requires him to be?"
"Mr. Guild?"
"Yes."
"He did not come here when the others arrived from Lesse Forest."
"He's a fire-brand," said von Reiter coldly. "Our system of information informed us sufficiently. I should have had him extinguished at Yslemont had he not been the one man who stood any chance of getting into England and bringing you back."
"Also you trusted him," she said quietly.
"Yes, I did. He is a Gueldres of Yvoir. The Gueldres have never lied. When he said he'd return, that settled the matter." Von Reiter's eyes had an absent look as though following a detached idea, and his features became expressionless.
"When the war ends," he said, "and if that man ever comes to Berlin, it would afford me gratification to offer him my hand—or my card. Either extreme would suit me; he is not a man to leave one indifferent; it is either friendship or enmity—the hand or the card. And I do not know yet which I might prefer."
He looked up and around at her, his sombre, blond features hardening:
"I need not ask you whether his attitude toward you was respectful."
"It was—respectful."
"That question, of course, answered itself. The record of that family is part of Belgian history.... Do you know where he went after he kept his word and delivered you here?"
"He went to Lesse."
"And then?"
She remained silent.
"Do you know?" he repeated.
"Yes."
"Is there any reason why you should not tell me?"
She was mute.
"Karen," he said gently, "is there any reason why your confidence should be withheld from me? I have come here tonight for my answer. I have only an hour to stay. It was a long way to come for one single word from a young girl. But I would have travelled the world over for that word from you. Will you give me my answer, Karen?"
She looked up, dumb, her mouth tremulous, unable to control her emotion for the moment. His keen eyes searched hers; he waited, thin lips compressed.
"Kurt—I—do not love you," she whispered.
He took it in silence; not a muscle quivered.
"Will you marry me, Karen, and try?"
"I can not."
"Is it your profession? Is it your desire for liberty?"
"No."
"Is it—another man?"
As he spoke he saw in her eyes that he had guessed the truth.
For a full minute he sat there like a statue, one arm extended on the table, the bony hand clenched. After a long while he lifted his head and turned upon her a visage terrifying in its pallour and rigidity.
"Is it—Guild?" he asked with an effort.
"Kurt!"
"Isit?" The heavy colour suddenly flooded his face; lie drew a deep, sharp breath. "Is he still in this neighbourhood? Is he, perhaps, coming here to see you? Isthatwhy you are awake and dressed at this hour?"
"Kurt, you have no right——"
"I am at liberty to ask you these questions——"
"No! It is an impertinence——"
"Do you regard it that way? Karen! Isthiswhat has happened—" He choked, turned his congested face, glaring about him at the four walls of the room. Suddenly some instinct of suspicion seized him, possessed him, brought him to his feet in one bound. And instantly the girl rose, too.
"I know why you are awake and dressed!" he said harshly. "Youareexpecting him! Are you?"
She could not answer; her breath had deserted her, and she merely stood there, one hand resting on the table, her frightened eyes fixed on the man confronting her.
But at his first step forward she sprang in front of him. She strove to speak; the infernal blaze in his eyes terrified her.
"Isthiswhat you have done to me?" he said; and moved to pass her, but she caught his arm, and he halted.