Title: Little comrade
Author: Stevenson, Burton Egbert
Language: English
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  LITTLE COMRADE

  _A TALE of the GREAT WAR_

  BY

  BURTON E. STEVENSON

  Author of “The Marathon Mystery,” “The Destroyer,” etc.

  NEW YORK

  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

  1915



  COPYRIGHT, 1914,
  BY
  BURTON E. STEVENSON

  COPYRIGHT, 1915,
  BY
  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

  _Published March, 1915_

  THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
  RAHWAY, N. J.



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                    PAGE

    I. THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY                1
   II. THE FIRST RUMBLINGS                    18
  III. “STATE OF WAR”                         38
   IV. THE MYSTERY OF THE SATIN SLIPPERS      52
    V. ONE WAY TO ACQUIRE A WIFE              59
   VI. THE SNARE                              80
   VII. IN THE TRAP                          102
  VIII. PRESTO! CHANGE!                      130
    IX. THE FRONTIER                         151
     X. FORTUNE FROWNS                       172
    XI. THE NIGHT ATTACK                     196
   XII. AN ARMY IN ACTION                    214
  XIII. THE PASSAGE OF THE MEUSE             234
   XIV. THE LAST DASH                        249
    XV. DISASTER                             267
   XVI. A TRUST FULFILLED                    285



LITTLE COMRADE



CHAPTER I

THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY


“LET us have coffee on the terrace,” Bloem suggested, and, as his
companion nodded, lifted a finger to the waiter and gave the order.

Both were a little sad, for this was their last meal together. Though
they had known each other less than a fortnight, they had become fast
friends. They had been thrown together by chance at the surgical
congress at Vienna, where Bloem, finding the American’s German lame and
halting, had constituted himself a sort of interpreter, and Stewart had
reciprocated by polishing away some of the roughnesses and Teutonic
involutions of Bloem’s formal English.

When the congress ended, they had journeyed back together in leisurely
fashion through Germany, spending a day in medieval Nuremberg, another
in odorous Würzburg, and a third in mountain-shadowed Heidelberg,
where Bloem had sought out some of his old comrades and initiated
his American friend into the mysteries of an evening session in the
Hirschgasse. Then they had turned northward to Mayence, and so down the
terraced Rhine to Cologne. Here they were to part, Bloem to return to
his work at Elberfeld, Stewart for a week or two in Brussels and Paris,
and then home to America.

Bloem’s train was to leave in an hour, and it was the consciousness of
this that kept them silent until their waiter came to tell them that
their coffee was served. As they followed him through the hall, a tall
man in the uniform of a captain of infantry entered from the street.
His eyes brightened as he caught sight of Bloem.

“_Ach_, Hermann!” he cried.

Bloem, turning, stopped an instant for a burlesque salute, then threw
himself into the other’s arms. A moment later, he was dragging him
forward to introduce him to Stewart.

“My cousin,” he cried, “Ritter Bloem, a soldier as you see--a great
fire-eater! Cousin, this is my friend, Dr. Bradford Stewart, whom I had
the good fortune to meet at Vienna.”

“I am pleased to know you, sir,” said the captain, shaking hands and
speaking excellent English.

“You must join us,” Bloem interposed. “We are just going to have coffee
on the terrace. Come,” and he caught the other by the arm.

But the captain shook his head.

“No, I cannot come,” he said; “really I cannot, much as I should like
to do so. Dr. Stewart,” he added, a little hesitatingly, “I trust you
will not think me discourteous if I take my cousin aside for a moment.”

“Certainly not,” Stewart assured him.

“I will join you on the terrace,” said Bloem, and Stewart, nodding
good-by to the captain, followed the waiter, who had stood by during
this exchange of greetings, and now led the way to a little table at
one corner of the broad balcony looking out over the square.

“Shall I pour the coffee, sir?” he asked, as Stewart sat down.

“No; I will wait for my companion,” and, as the waiter bowed and
stepped back, Stewart leaned forward with a deep breath of admiration.

Below him lay the green level of the Domhof, its close-clipped trees
outlined stiffly against the lights behind them. Beyond rose the
choir of the great cathedral, with its fretted pinnacles, and flying
buttresses, and towering roof. By day, he had found its exterior
somewhat cold and bare and formal, lacking somehow the subtle spirit
of true Gothic; but nothing could be more beautiful than it was now,
shimmering in the moonlight, bathed in luminous shadow, lace-like and
mysterious.

He was still absorbed in this fairy vision when Bloem rejoined him.
Even in the half-light of the terrace, Stewart could see that he was
deeply moved. His face, usually glowing with healthy color, was almost
haggard; his eyes seemed dull and sunken.

“No bad news, I hope?” Stewart asked.

Without answering him, Bloem signaled the waiter to pour the coffee,
and sat watching him in silence.

“That will do,” he said in German; “we will ring if we have need of
you.” Then, as the waiter withdrew, he glanced nervously about the
terrace. It was deserted save for a noisy group around a table at the
farther end. “There is very bad news, my friend,” he added, almost in a
whisper. “There is going to be--war!”

Stewart stared for an instant, astonished at the gravity of his tone.
Then he nodded comprehendingly.

“Yes,” he said; “I had not thought of it; but I suppose a war between
Austria and Servia _will_ affect Germany more or less. Only I was
hoping the Powers would interfere and stop it.”

“It seems it cannot be stopped,” said Bloem, gloomily. “Russia is
mobilizing to assist Servia. Austria is Germany’s ally, and so Germany
must come to her aid. Unless Russia stops her mobilization, we shall
declare war against her. Our army has already been called to the
colors.”

Stewart breathed a little deeper.

“But perhaps Russia will desist when she realizes her danger,” he
suggested. “She must know she is no match for Germany.”

“She does know it,” Bloem agreed; “but she also knows that she will not
fight alone. It is not against Russia we are mobilizing--it is against
France.”

“Against France?” echoed the other. “But surely----”

“Do not speak so loud, I beg of you,” Bloem cautioned. “What I am
telling you is not yet generally known--perhaps the dreadful thing
we fear will not happen, after all. But France is Russia’s ally--she
will be eager for war--for forty years she has been preparing for this
moment.”

“Yes,” agreed Stewart, smiling, “I have heard of ‘_la revanche_’; I
have seen the mourning wreaths on the Strassburg monument. I confess,”
he added, “that I sympathize with France’s dream of regaining her lost
provinces. So do most Americans. We are a sentimental people.”

“I, too, sympathize with that dream,” said Bloem, quickly, “or at least
I understand it. So do many Germans. We have come to realize that the
seizure of Alsace and Lorraine, however justified by history, was in
effect a terrible mistake. We should have been generous in our hour of
triumph--that way lay a chance of friendship with a people whose pride
remained unbroken by disaster. Instead, we chose to heap insults upon
a conquered foe, and we have reaped a merited reward of detestation.
Ironically enough, those provinces which cost us so much have been
to us a source of weakness, not of strength. We have had to fortify
them, to police them, to hold them in stern repression. Even yet,
they must be treated as conquered ground. You do not know--you cannot
realize--what that means!” He stared out gloomily into the night. “I
have served there,” he added, hoarsely.

There was something in his tone which sent a shiver across Stewart’s
scalp, as though he had found himself suddenly at the brink of a
horrible abyss into which he dared not turn his eyes. He fancied he
could see in his companion’s somber face the stirring of ghastly
memories, of tragic experience----

“But since France has not yet declared war,” he said at last, “surely
you will wait----”

“Ah, my friend,” Bloem broke in, “we cannot afford to wait. We must
strike quickly and with all our strength. There is no secret as to
Germany’s plan--France must be crushed under a mighty blow before she
can defend herself; after that it will be Russia’s turn.”

“And after that?”

“After that? After that, we shall seize more provinces and exact more
huge indemnities--and add just so much to our legacy of fear and
hatred! We are bound to a wheel from which we cannot escape.”

Stewart looked dazedly out over the lighted square.

“I can’t understand it,” he said, at last. “I don’t understand how such
things can be. They aren’t possible. They’re too terrible to be true.
This is a civilized world--such things can never happen--humanity won’t
endure it!”

Bloem passed a trembling hand before his eyes, as a man awaking from a
horrid dream.

“Let us hope so, at least,” he said. “But I am afraid; I shake with
fear! Europe is topheavy under the burden of her awful armaments; now,
or at some future time, she must come tumbling down; she must--she
must--” he paused, searching for a word--“she must crumble. Perhaps
that time has come.”

“I don’t believe it,” Stewart protested, stoutly. “Some day she will
realize the insane folly of this armament, and it will cease.”

“I wish I could believe so,” said Bloem, sadly; “but you do not
know, my friend, how we here in Germany, for example, are weighed
down by militarism. You do not know the arrogance, the ignorance,
the narrow-mindedness of the military caste. They do nothing
for Germany--they add nothing to her art, her science, or her
literature--they add nothing to her wealth--they destroy rather than
build up--and yet it is they who rule Germany. We are a pacific people,
we love our homes and a quiet life; we are not a military people, and
yet every man in Germany must march to war when the word is given. We
ourselves have no voice in the matter. We have only to obey.”

“Obey whom?” asked Stewart.

“The Emperor,” answered Bloem, bitterly. “With all our progress,
my friend, with all our development in science and industry, with
all our literature and art, with all our philosophy, we still live
in a medieval State, ruled by a king who believes himself divinely
appointed, who can do no wrong, and who, in time of war at least, has
absolute power over us. And the final decision as to war or peace is
wholly in his hands. Understand I do not complain of the Emperor; he
has done great things for Germany; he has often cast his influence for
peace. But he is surrounded by aristocrats intent only on maintaining
their privileges, who are terrified by the growth of democratic ideas;
who believe that the only way to checkmate democracy is by a great war.
It is they who preach the doctrine of blood and iron; who hold that
Cæsar is sacrosanct. The Emperor struggles against them; but some day
they will prove too strong for him. Besides, he himself believes in
blood and iron; he hates democracy as bitterly as anyone, for it denies
the divine right of kings!” He stopped suddenly, his finger to his ear.
“Listen!” he said.

Down the street, from the direction of the river, came a low,
continuous murmur, as of the wind among the leaves of a forest;
then, as it grew clearer, it resolved itself into the tramp, tramp of
iron-shod feet. Bloem leaned far forward staring into the darkness; and
suddenly, at the corner, three mounted officers appeared; then a line
of soldiers wheeled into view; then another and another and another,
moving as one man. The head of the column crossed the square, passed
behind the church and disappeared, but still the tide poured on with
slow and regular undulation, dim, mysterious, and threatening. At last
the rear of the column came into view, passed, disappeared; the clatter
of iron on stone softened to a shuffle, to a murmur, died away.

With a long breath, Bloem sat erect and passed his handkerchief across
his shining forehead.

“There is one battalion,” he said; “one unit composed of a thousand
lesser units--each unit a man with a soul like yours and mine; with
hopes and ambitions; with women to love him; and now marching to death,
perhaps, in the ranks yonder without in the least knowing why. There
are four million such units in the army the Emperor can call into the
field. I am one of them--I shall march like the rest!”

“You!”

“Yes--I am a private in the Elberfeld battalion.” He spread out his
delicate, sensitive, surgeon’s hands and looked at them. “I was at
one time a sergeant,” he added, “but my discipline did not satisfy my
lieutenant and I was reduced to the ranks.”

Stewart also stared at those beautiful hands, so expressive, so expert.
How vividly they typified the waste of war!

“But it’s absurd,” he protested, “that a man like you--highly-trained,
highly-educated, a specialist--should be made to shoulder a rifle. In
the ranks, you are worth no more than the most ignorant peasant.”

“Not so much,” corrected Bloem. “Our ideal soldier is one whose
obedience is instant and unquestioning.”

“But why are you not placed where you would be most efficient--in the
hospital corps, perhaps?”

“There are enough old and middle-aged surgeons for that duty. Young men
must fight! Besides, I am suspected of having too many ideas!”

He sat for a moment longer staring down at his hands--staring too,
perhaps, at his career so ruthlessly shattered--then he shook himself
together and glanced across at his companion with a wry little smile.

“You will think me a great croaker!” he said. “It was the first
shock--the thought of everything going to pieces. In a day or two, I
shall be marching as light-heartedly as all the others--knowing only
that I am fighting the enemies of my country--and wishing to know no
more!”

But Stewart did not answer the smile. Confused thoughts were flying
through his head--thoughts which he struggled to compose into some
order or sequence.

Bloem looked at him for a moment, and his smile grew more ironic.

“I can guess what is in your mind,” he said. “You are wondering why we
march at all--why we offer ourselves as cannon-fodder, if we do not
wish to do so. You are thinking of defiances, of revolutions. But there
will never be a revolution in Germany--not in this generation.”

“Yes, I was thinking something like that,” Stewart agreed. “Why will
there be no revolution?”

“Because we are too thoroughly drilled in the habit of obedience. That
habit is grooved deep into our brains. Were any of us so rash as to
start a revolution, the government could stop it with a single word.”

“A single word?”

“Yes--‘_verboten_’!” retorted Bloem, with a short laugh. Then he
pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “I must say good-by. My orders
are awaiting me at Elberfeld.”

Stewart rose too, his face still mazed with incredulity.

“You really mean----”

“I mean,” Bloem broke in, “that to-morrow I go to my depot, hang about
my neck the metal tag stamped with my number, put on my uniform and
shoulder my rifle. I cease to be an individual--I become a soldier.
Good-by, my friend,” he added, his voice softening. “Think of me
sometimes, in that far-off, sublime America of yours. One thing
more--do not linger in Germany--things will be very different here
under martial law. Get home as quickly as you can; and, in the midst of
your peace and happiness, pity us poor blind worms who are forced to
slay each other!”

“But I will go with you to the station,” Stewart protested.

“No, no,” said Bloem; “you must not do that. I am to meet my cousin.
Good-by. _Lebe wohl!_”

“Good-by--and good luck!” and Stewart wrung the hand thrust into his.
“You have been most kind to me.”

Bloem answered only with a little shake of the head; then turned
resolutely and hastened from the terrace.

Stewart sank back into his seat more moved than he would have believed
possible by this parting from a man whom, a fortnight before, he had
not known at all. Poor Bloem! To what fate was he being hurried! A
cultured man graded down to the level of the hind; a gentleman set to
the task of slaughter; a democrat driven to fight in defense of the
divine right of kings! But could such a fight succeed? Was any power
strong enough to drag back the hands of time----

And then Stewart started violently, for someone had touched him on the
shoulder. He looked up to find standing over him a tall man in dark
blue uniform and wearing a spiked helmet.

“Your pardon, sir,” said the man in careful English; “I am an agent of
the police. I must ask you certain questions.”

“Very well,” agreed Stewart with a smile. “Go ahead--I have nothing to
conceal. But won’t you sit down?”

“I thank you,” and the policeman sat down heavily. “You are, I believe,
an American.”

“Yes.”

“Have you a passport?”

“Yes--I was foolish enough to get one before I left home. All my
friends laughed at me and told me I was wasting a dollar!”

“I should like to see it.”

Stewart put his hand into an inner pocket, drew out the crackling
parchment and passed it over. The other took it, unfolded it, glanced
at the red seal and at the date, then read the very vague description
of its owner, and finally drew out a notebook.

“Please sign your name here,” he said, and indicated a blank page.

Stewart wrote his name, and the officer compared it with the signature
at the bottom of the passport. Then he nodded, folded it up, and handed
it back across the table.

“It is quite regular,” he said. “For what time have you been in
Germany?”

“About two weeks. I attended the surgical congress at Vienna.”

“You are a surgeon by profession?”

“Yes.”

“You are now on your way home?”

“Yes.”

“When will you leave Germany?”

“I am going from here to Aix-la-Chapelle in the morning, and expect to
leave there for Brussels to-morrow afternoon or Sunday morning at the
latest.”

The officer noted these details in his book.

“At what hotel will you stay in Aachen?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Is there a good one near the station?”

“The Kölner Hof is near the station. It is not large, but it is very
good. It is starred by Baedeker.”

“Then I will go there,” said Stewart.

“Very good,” and the officer wrote, “Kölner Hof, Aachen,” after
Stewart’s name, closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket.
“You understand, sir, that it is our duty to keep watch over all
strangers, as much for their own protection as for any other reason.”

“Yes,” assented Stewart, “I understand. I have heard that there is some
danger of war.”

“Of that I know nothing,” said the other coldly, and rose quickly to
his feet. “I bid you good-night, sir.”

“Good-night,” responded Stewart, and watched the upright figure until
it disappeared.

Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he gazed out at the great cathedral,
nebulous and dream-like in the darkness, and tried to picture to
himself what such a war would mean as Bloem had spoken of. With men by
the million dragged into the vast armies, who would harvest Europe’s
grain, who would work in her factories, who would conduct her business?
Above all, who would feed the women and children?

And where would the money come from--the millions needed daily to keep
such armies in the field? Where could it come from, save from the sweat
of inoffensive people, who must be starved and robbed and ground into
the earth until the last penny was wrung from them? Along the line of
battle, thousands would meet swift death, and thousands more would
struggle back to life through the torments of hell, to find themselves
maimed and useless. But how trivial their sufferings beside the slow,
hopeless, year-long martyrdom of the countless thousands who would
never see a battle, who would know little of the war--who would know
only that never thereafter was there food enough, warmth enough----

Stewart started from his reverie to find the waiter putting out the
lights. Shivering as with a sudden chill, he hastily sought his room.



CHAPTER II

THE FIRST RUMBLINGS


AS Stewart ate his breakfast next morning, he smiled at his absurd
fears of the night before. In the clear light of day, Bloem’s talk
of war seemed mere foolishness. War! Nonsense! Europe would never be
guilty of such folly--a deliberate plunge to ruin.

Besides, there were no evidences of war; the life of the city was
moving in its accustomed round, so far as Stewart could see; and
there was vast reassurance in the quiet and orderly service of the
breakfast-room. No doubt the Powers had bethought themselves, had
interfered, had stopped the war between Austria and Servia, had ceased
mobilization--in a word, had saved Europe from an explosion which would
have shaken her from end to end.

But when Stewart asked for his bill, the proprietor, instead of
intrusting it as usual to the head-waiter, presented it in person.

“If Herr Stewart would pay in gold, it would be a great favor,” he said.

Like all Americans, Stewart, unaccustomed to gold and finding its
weight burdensome, carried banknotes whenever it was possible to do
so. Emptying his pockets now, he found, besides a miscellaneous lot of
silver and nickel and copper, a single small gold coin, value ten marks.

“But I have plenty of paper,” he said, and, producing his pocket-book,
spread five notes for a hundred marks each before him on the table.
“What’s the matter with it?”

“There is nothing at all the matter with it, sir,” the little fat
German hastened to assure him; “only, just at present, there is a
preference for gold. I would advise that you get gold for these notes,
if possible.”

“I have a Cook’s letter of credit,” said Stewart. “They would give me
gold. Where is Cook’s office here?”

“It is but a step up the street, sir,” answered the other eagerly.
“Come, I will show you,” and, hastening to the door, he pointed out
the office at the end of a row of buildings jutting out toward the
cathedral.

Stewart, the banknotes in his hand, hastened thither, and found quite
a crowd of people drawing money on traveler’s checks and letters of
credit. He noticed that they were all being paid in gold. They, too, it
seemed, had heard rumors of war, had been advised to get gold; but most
of them treated the rumors as a joke and were heeding the advice only
because they needed gold to pay their bills.

Even if there was war, they told each other, it could not affect them.
At most, it would only add a spice of excitement and adventure to the
remainder of their European tour; what they most feared was that they
would not be permitted to see any of the fighting! A few of the more
timid shamefacedly confessed that they were getting ready to turn
homeward, but by far the greater number proclaimed the fact that they
had made up their minds not to alter their plans in any detail. So much
Stewart gathered as he stood in line waiting his turn; then he was in
front of the cashier’s window.

The cashier looked rather dubious when Stewart laid the banknotes down
and asked for gold.

“I am carrying one of your letters of credit,” Stewart explained, and
produced it. “I got these notes on it at Heidelberg just the other day.
Now it seems they’re no good.”

“They are perfectly good,” the cashier assured him; “but some of the
tradespeople, who are always suspicious and ready to take alarm, are
demanding gold. How long will you be in Germany?”

“I go to Belgium to-night or to-morrow.”

“Then you can use French gold,” said the cashier, with visible relief.
“Will one hundred marks in German gold carry you through? Yes? I think
I can arrange it on that basis;” and when Stewart assented, counted
out five twenty-mark pieces and twenty-four twenty-franc pieces. “I
think you are wise to leave Germany as soon as possible,” he added, in
a low tone, as Stewart gathered up this money and bestowed it about
his person. “We do not wish to alarm anyone, and we are not offering
advice, but if war comes, Germany will not be a pleasant place for
strangers.”

“Is it really coming?” Stewart asked. “Is there any news?”

“There is nothing definite--just a feeling in the air--but I believe
that it is coming,” and he turned to the next in line.

Stewart hastened back to the hotel, where his landlord received with
reiterated thanks the thirty marks needed to settle the bill. When that
transaction was ended, he glanced nervously about the empty office,
and then leaned close.

“You leave this morning, do you not, sir?” he asked, in a tone
cautiously lowered.

“Yes; I am going to Aix-la-Chapelle.”

“Take my advice, sir,” said the landlord earnestly, “and do not stop
there. Go straight on to Brussels.”

“But why?” asked Stewart. “Everybody is advising me to get out of
Germany. What danger can there be?”

“No danger, perhaps, but very great annoyance. It is rumored that the
Emperor has already signed the proclamation declaring Germany in a
state of war. It may be posted at any moment.”

“Suppose it is--what then? What difference can that make to me--or to
any American?”

“I see you do not know what those words mean,” said the little
landlord, leaning still closer and speaking with twitching lips.
“When Germany is in a state of war, all civil authority ceases; the
military authority is everywhere supreme. The state takes charge of
all railroads, and no private persons will be permitted on them until
the troops have been mobilized, which will take at least a week; even
after that, the trains will run only when the military authorities
think proper, and never past the frontier. The telegraphs are taken
and will send no private messages; no person may enter or leave the
country until his identity is clearly established; every stranger in
the country will be placed under arrest, if there is any reason to
suspect him. All motor vehicles are seized, all horses, all stores of
food. Business stops, because almost all the men must go to the army.
I must close my hotel because there will be no men left to work for
me. Even if the men were left, there would be no custom when travel
ceases. Every shop will be closed which cannot be managed by women;
every factory will shut, unless its product is needed by the army. Your
letter of credit will be worthless, because there will be no way in
which our bankers can get gold from America. No--at that time, Germany
will be no place for strangers.”

Stewart listened incredulously, for all this sounded like the wildest
extravagance. He could not believe that business and industry would
fall to pieces like that--it was too firmly founded, too strongly built.

“What I have said is true, sir, believe me,” said the little man,
earnestly, seeing his skeptical countenance. “One thing more--have you
a passport?”

“Yes,” said Stewart, and tapped his pocket.

“That is good. That will save you trouble at the frontier. Ah, here is
your baggage. Good-by, sir, and a safe voyage to your most fortunate
country.”

A brawny porter shouldered the two suit-cases which held Stewart’s
belongings, and the latter followed him along the hall to the door. As
he stepped out upon the terrace, he saw drawn up there about twenty
men--some with the black coats of waiters, some with the white caps of
cooks, some with the green aprons of porters--while a bearded man in
a spiked helmet was checking off their names in a little book. At the
sound of Stewart’s footsteps, he turned and cast upon him the cold,
impersonal glance of German officialdom. Then he looked at the porter.

“You will return as quickly as possible,” he said gruffly in German to
the latter, and returned to his checking.

As they crossed the Domhof and skirted the rear of the cathedral,
Stewart noticed that many of the shops were locked and shuttered, and
that the street seemed strangely deserted. Only as they neared the
station did the crowd increase. It was evident that many tourists,
warned, perhaps, as Stewart had been, had made up their minds to get
out of Germany; but the train drawn up beside the platform was a long
one, and there was room for everybody. It was a good-humored crowd,
rather inclined to laugh at its own fears and to protest that this
journey was entirely in accordance with a pre-arranged schedule; but it
grew quieter and quieter as moment after moment passed and the train
did not start.

That a German train should not start precisely on time was certainly
unusual; that it should wait for twenty minutes beyond that time was
staggering. But the station-master, pacing solemnly up and down the
platform, paid no heed to the inquiries addressed to him, and the
guards answered only by a shake of the head which might mean anything.
Then, quite suddenly, above the noises of the station, menacing and
insistent came the low, ceaseless shuffle of approaching feet.

A moment later the head of an infantry column appeared at the station
entrance. It halted there, and an officer, in a long, gray cape that
fell to his ankles, strode toward the station-master, who hastened to
meet him. There was a moment’s conference, and then the station-master,
saluting for the tenth time, turned to the expectant guards.

“Clear the train!” he shouted in stentorian German, and the guards
sprang eagerly to obey.

The scene which followed is quite indescribable. All the Germans in
the train hastened to get off, as did everybody else who understood
what was demanded and knew anything of the methods of militarism. But
many did not understand; a few who did made the mistake of standing
upon what they conceived to be their rights and refusing to be
separated from their luggage--and all alike, men, women, and children,
were yanked from their seats and deposited upon the platform. Some were
deposited upon their feet--but not many. Women screamed as rough and
seemingly hostile hands were laid upon them; men, red and inarticulate
with anger, attempted ineffectually to resist. In a moment one and
all found themselves shut off by a line of police which had suddenly
appeared from nowhere and drawn up before the train.

Then a whistle sounded and the soldiers began to file into the
carriages in the most systematic manner. Twenty-four men entered each
compartment--ten sitting down and fourteen standing up or sitting
upon the others’ laps. Each coach, therefore, held one hundred and
forty-four; and the battalion of seven hundred and twenty men exactly
filled five coaches--just as the General Staff had long ago figured
that it should.

Stewart, after watching this marvel of organization for a moment,
realized that, if any carriages were empty, it would be the ones at the
end of the train, and quietly made his way thither. At last, in the
rear coach, he came to a compartment in which sat one man, evidently a
German, with a melancholy, bearded face. Before the door stood a guard
watching the battalion entrain.

“May one get aboard?” Stewart inquired, in his best German.

The guard held up his hand for an instant; then the gold-braided
station-master shouted a sentence which Stewart could not distinguish;
but the guard dropped his hand and nodded.

Looking back, the American saw a wild mob charging down the platform
toward him, and hastily swung himself aboard. As he dropped into his
seat, he could hear the shrieks and oaths of the mêlée outside, and the
next moment, a party of breathless and disheveled women were storming
the door. They were panting, exhausted, inarticulate with rage and
chagrin; they fell in, rolled in, stumbled in, until the compartment
was jammed.

Stewart, swept from his seat at the first impact, but rallying and
doing what he could to bring order out of chaos, could not but admire
the manner in which his bearded fellow-passenger clung immovably to
his seat until the last woman was aboard, and then reached quickly out,
slammed shut the door, and held it shut, despite the entreaties of the
lost souls who drifted despairingly past along the platform, seemingly
blind, deaf, and totally uninterested in what was passing around him.

Then Stewart looked at the women. Nine were crowded into the seats;
eight were standing; all were red and perspiring; and most of them had
plainly lost their tempers. Stewart was perspiring himself, and he got
out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead; then he ventured to speak.

“Well,” he said; “so this is war! I have always heard it was warm work!”

Most of the women merely glared at him and went on adjusting their
clothing, and fastening up their hair, and straightening their hats;
but one, a buxom woman of forty-eight or fifty, who was crowded next to
him, and who had evidently suffered more than her share of the general
misfortune, turned sharply.

“Are you an American?” she demanded.

“I am, madam.”

“And you stand by and see your countrywomen treated in this perfectly
outrageous fashion?”

“My dear madam,” protested Stewart, “what could one man--even an
American--do against a thousand?”

“You could at least----”

“Nonsense, mother,” broke in another voice, and Stewart turned to see
that it was a slim, pale girl of perhaps twenty-two who spoke. “The
gentleman is quite right. Besides, I thought it rather good fun.”

“Good fun!” snapped her mother. “Good fun to be jerked about and
trampled on and insulted! And where is our baggage? Will we ever see it
again?”

“Oh, the baggage is safe enough,” Stewart assured her. “The troops will
detrain somewhere this side the frontier, and we can all take our old
seats.”

“But why should they travel by this train? Why should they not take
another train? Why should they----”

“Are we all here?” broke in an anxious voice. “Is anyone missing?”

There was a moment’s counting, then a general sigh of relief. The
number was found correct.

From somewhere up the line a whistle sounded, and the state of the
engine-driver’s nerves could be inferred from the jerk with which
he started--quite an American jerk. All the women who were standing,
screamed and clutched at each other and swayed back and forth as if
wrestling. Stewart found himself wrestling with the buxom woman.

“I cannot stand!” she declared. “It is outrageous that I should have to
stand!” and she fixed glittering eyes upon the bearded stranger. “No
American would remain seated while a woman of my age was standing!”

But the bearded stranger gazed blandly out of the window at the passing
landscape.

There was a moment’s silence, during which everyone looked at the
heartless culprit. Stewart had an uneasy feeling that, if he were to do
his duty as an American, he would grab the offender by the collar and
hurl him through the window. Then the woman next to the stranger bumped
resolutely into him, pressed him into the corner, and disclosed a few
inches of the seat.

“Sit here, Mrs. Field,” she said. “We can all squeeze up a little.”

The pressure was tremendous when Mrs. Field sat down; but the carriage
was strongly built and the sides held. The slender girl came and stood
by Stewart.

“What’s it all about?” she asked. “Has there been a riot or something?”

“There is going to be a most awful riot,” answered Stewart, “unless all
signs fail. Germany is mobilizing her troops to attack France.”

“To attack France! How outrageous! It’s that Kaiser Wilhelm, I suppose!
Well, I hope France will simply clean him up!”

“So do I!” cried her mother. “The Germans are not gentlemen. They do
not know how to treat women!”

“‘_Kochen, Kirche und Kinder!_’” quoted somebody, in a high voice.

“But see here,” protested Stewart, with a glance at the bearded
stranger, who was still staring steadily out of the window, “if I were
you, I’d wait till I was out of Germany before saying so. It would be
safer!”

“Safer!” echoed an elderly woman with a high nose. “I should like to
see them harm an American!”

Stewart turned away to the window with a gesture of despair, and caught
the laughing eyes of the girl who stood beside him.

“Don’t blame them too much,” she said. “They’re not themselves. Usually
they are all quite polite and well-behaved; but now they are perfectly
savage. And I don’t blame them. I didn’t mind so much, because I’m slim
and long-legged and not very dignified; but if I were a stout, elderly
woman, rather proud of my appearance, I would bitterly resent being
yanked out of a seat and violently propelled across a platform by a
bearded ruffian with dirty hands. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” agreed Stewart, laughing; “I should probably kick and bite and
behave in a most undignified manner.”

The girl leaned closer.

“Some of them did!” she murmured.

Stewart laughed again and looked at her with fresh interest. It was
something to find a woman who could preserve her sense of humor under
such circumstances.

“You have been doing the continent?” he asked.

“Yes, seventeen of us; all from Philadelphia.”

“And you’ve had a good time, of course?”

“We’d have had a better if we had brought a man along. I never realized
before how valuable men are. Women aren’t fitted by nature to wrestle
with time-tables and cabbies and hotel-bills and head-waiters. This
trip has taught me to respect men more than I have ever done.”

“Then it hasn’t been wasted. But you say you’re from Philadelphia. I
know some people in Philadelphia--the Courtlandt Bryces are sort of
cousins of mine.”

But the girl shook her head.

“That sort of thing happens only in novels,” she said. “But there is
no reason I shouldn’t tell you my name, if you want to know it. It is
Millicent Field, and its possessor is very undistinguished--just a
school-teacher--not at all in the same social circle as the Courtlandt
Bryces.”

Stewart colored a little.

“My name is Bradford Stewart,” he said, “and I also am very
undistinguished--just a surgeon on the staff at Johns Hopkins. Did you
get to Vienna?”

“No; that was too far for us.”

“There was a clinic there; I saw some wonderful things. These German
surgeons certainly know their business.”

Miss Field made a little grimace.

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But do you know the impression of Germany
that I am taking home with me? It is that Germany is a country run
solely in the interests of the male half of creation. Women are
tolerated only because they are necessary in the scheme of things.”

Stewart laughed.

“There was a book published a year or two ago,” he said, “called
‘Germany and the Germans.’ Perhaps you read it?”

“No.”

“I remember it for one remark. Its author says that Germany is the
only country on earth where the men’s hands are better kept than the
women’s.”

Miss Field clapped her hands in delight.

“Delicious!” she cried. “Splendid! And it is true,” she added, more
seriously. “Did you see the women cleaning the streets in Munich?”

“Yes.”

“And harvesting the grain, and spreading manure, and carrying great
burdens--doing all the dirty work and the heavy work. What are the men
doing, I should like to know?”

“Madam,” spoke up the bearded stranger by the window, in a deep
voice which made everybody jump, “I will tell you what the men are
doing--they are in the army, preparing themselves for the defense
of their fatherland. Do you think it is of choice they leave the
harvesting and street-cleaning and carrying of burdens to their mothers
and wives and sisters? No; it is because for them is reserved a
greater task--the task of confronting the revengeful hate of France,
the envious hate of England, the cruel hate of Russia. That is their
task to-day, madam, and they accept it with light hearts, confident of
victory!”

There was a moment’s silence. Mrs. Field was the first to find her
voice.

“All the same,” she said, “that does not justify the use of cows as
draft animals!”

The German stared at her an instant in astonishment, then turned away
to the window with a gesture of contempt, as of one who refuses to
argue with lunatics, and paid no further heed to the Americans.

With them, the conversation turned from war, which none of them really
believed would come, to home, for which they were all longing. Home,
Stewart told himself, means everything to middle-aged women of fixed
habits. It was astonishing that they should tear themselves away from
it, even for a tour of Europe, for to them travel meant martyrdom.
Home! How their eyes brightened as they spoke the word! They were going
through to Brussels, then to Ostend, after a look at Ghent and Bruges,
and so to England and their boat.

“I intend to spend the afternoon at Aix-la-Chapelle,” said Stewart,
“and go on to Brussels to-night or in the morning. Perhaps I shall see
you there.”

Miss Field mentioned the hotel at which the party would stop.

“What is there at Aix-la-Chapelle?” she asked. “I suppose I ought to
know, but I don’t.”

“There’s a cathedral, with the tomb of Charlemagne, and his throne, and
a lot of other relics. I was always impressed by Charlemagne. He was
the real thing in the way of emperors.”

“I should like to see his tomb,” said Miss Field. “Why can’t we stop at
Aix-la-Chapelle, mother?”

But Mrs. Field shook her head.

“We will get out of Germany as quickly as we can,” she said, and the
other members of the party nodded their hearty agreement.

Meanwhile the train rolled steadily on through a beautiful and peaceful
country, where war seemed incredible and undreamed of. White villas
dotted the thickly-wooded hillsides; quaint villages huddled in the
valleys. And finally the train crossed a long viaduct and rumbled into
the station at Aix-la-Chapelle.

The platform was deserted, save for a few guards and porters.
Stewart opened the door and was about to step out, when a guard waved
him violently back. Looking forward, he saw that the soldiers were
detraining.

“Good!” he said. “You can get your old seats again!” and, catching the
eye of the guard, gave him a nod which promised a liberal tip.

That worthy understood it perfectly, and the moment the last soldier
was on the platform, he beckoned to Stewart and his party, assisted
them to find their old compartments, ejected a peasant who had taken
refuge in one of them, assured the ladies that they would have no
further inconvenience, and summoned a porter to take charge of
Stewart’s suit-cases. In short, he did everything he could to earn the
shining three-mark piece which Stewart slipped into his hand.

And then, after receiving the thanks of the ladies and promising to
look them up in Brussels, Stewart followed his porter across the
platform to the entrance.

Millicent Field looked after him a little wistfully.

“How easy it is for a man to do things!” she remarked to nobody in
particular. “Never speak to me again of woman suffrage!”



CHAPTER III

“STATE OF WAR”


STEWART, following his porter, was engulfed in the human tide which had
been beating clamorously against the gates, and which surged forward
across the platform as soon as they were opened. There were tourists
of all nations, alarmed by the threat of war, and there were also many
people who, to Stewart at least, appeared to be Germans; and all of
them were running toward the train, looking neither to the right nor
left, dragging along as much luggage as they could carry.

As he stepped aside for a moment out of the way of this torrent,
Stewart found himself beside the bearded stranger who had waxed
eloquent in defense of Germany. He was watching the crowd with a look
at once mocking and sardonic, as a spider might watch a fly struggling
vainly to escape from the web. He glanced at Stewart, then turned away
without any sign of recognition.

“Where do you go, sir?” the porter asked, when they were safely through
the gates.

“To the Kölner Hof.”

“It is but a step,” said the porter, and he unhooked his belt, passed
it through the handles of the suit-cases, hooked it together again and
lifted it to his shoulder. “This way, sir, if you please.”

The Kölner Hof proved to be a modest inn just around the corner,
where Stewart was received most cordially by the plump, high-colored
landlady. Lunch would be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile, if the
gentleman would follow the waiter, he would be shown to a room where he
could remove the traces of his journey. But first would the gentleman
fill in the blank required by the police?

So Stewart filled in the blank, which demanded his name, his
nationality, his age, his business, his home address, the place from
which he had come to Aix-la-Chapelle and the place to which he would go
on leaving it, handed it back to the smiling landlady, and followed an
ugly, hang-dog waiter up the stair.

The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, scrupulously
clean, and as he made his toilet, Stewart reflected how much more of
comfort and how much warmer welcome was often to be had at the small
inns than at the big ones, and mentally thanked the officer of police
who had recommended this one. He found he had further reason for
gratitude when he sat down to lunch, served on a little table set in
one corner of a shady court--the best lunch he had eaten for a long
time, as he told the landlady when she came out presently, knitting
in hand, and sat down near him. She could speak a little English, it
appeared, and a little French, and these, with Stewart’s little German,
afforded a medium of communication limping, it is true, but sufficient.

She received the compliments of her guest with the dignity of one who
knew them to be deserved.

“I do what I can to please my patrons,” she said; “and indeed I have
had no cause to complain, for the season has been very good. But this
war--it will ruin us innkeepers--there will be no more travelers.
Already, I hear, Spa, Ostend, Carlsbad, Baden--such places as
those--are deserted just when the season should be at its best. What do
you think of it--this war?”

“Most probably it is just another scare,” said Stewart. “War seems
scarcely possible in these days--it is too cruel, too absurd. An
agreement will be reached.”

“I am sure I hope so, sir; but it looks very bad. For three days now
our troops have been passing through Aachen toward the frontier.”

“How far away is the frontier?”

“About ten miles. The customhouse is at Herbesthal.”

“Ten miles!” echoed Stewart in surprise. “The frontier of France?”

“Oh, no--the frontier of Belgium.”

“But why should they concentrate along the Belgian frontier?” Stewart
demanded.

“Perhaps they fear an attack from that direction. Or perhaps,” she
added, calmly, “they are preparing to seize Belgium. I have often heard
it said that Belgium should belong to Germany.”

“But look here,” protested Stewart, hotly, “Germany can’t seize a
country just because it happens to be smaller and weaker than she is!”

“Can’t she?” inquired the landlady, seemingly astonished at his
indignation. “Why is that?”

Her eyes were shining strangely as she lowered them to her knitting;
and there was a moment’s silence, broken only by the rapid clicking of
her needles. For Stewart found himself unable to answer her question.
Ever since history began, big countries had been seizing smaller ones,
and great powers crushing weaker ones. If Austria might seize Bosnia
and Italy Tripoli, why might not Germany seize Belgium? And he suddenly
realized that, in spite of protests and denials and hypocrisies,
between nation and nation the law of the jungle was, even yet, often
the only law!

“At any rate,” pursued the landlady, at last, “I have heard that great
intrenchments are being built all along there, and that supplies for a
million men have been assembled. There has been talk of war many times
before, and nothing has come of it; but there have never been such
preparations as these.”

“Let us hope it is only the Kaiser rattling his sword again--a little
louder than usual. I confess,” he added more soberly, “that as an
American I haven’t much sympathy with Prussian militarism. I have
sometimes thought that a war which would put an end to it once for all
would be a good thing.”

The woman shot him a glance surprisingly quick and piercing.

“That is also the opinion of many here in Germany,” she said in a low
voice; “but it is an opinion which cannot be uttered.” She checked
herself quickly as the ugly waiter approached. “How long will the
gentleman remain in Aachen?” she asked, in another tone.

“I am going on to Brussels this evening. There is a train at six
o’clock, is there not?”

“At six o’clock, yes, sir. It will be well for the gentleman to have a
light dinner before his departure. The train may be delayed--and the
journey to Brussels is of seven hours.”

“Very well,” agreed Stewart, rising. “I will be back about five. How
does one get to the cathedral?”

“Turn to your right, sir, as you leave the hotel. The first street is
the Franzstrasse. It will lead you straight to the church.”

Stewart thanked her and set off. The Franzstrasse proved to be a wide
thoroughfare, bordered by handsome shops, but many of them were closed
and the street itself was almost deserted. It opened upon a narrower
street, at the end of which Stewart could see the lofty choir of the
minster.

Presently he became aware of a chorus of high-pitched voices, which
grew more and more distinct as he advanced. It sounded like a lot of
women in violent altercation, and then in a moment he saw what it was,
for he came out upon an open square covered with market-stalls, and so
crowded that one could scarcely get across it. Plainly the frugal wives
of Aachen were laying in supplies against the time when all food would
grow scarce and dear, and from the din of high-pitched bargaining it
was evident that the crafty market-people had already begun to advance
their prices.

Stewart paused for a while to contemplate this scene, far more violent
and war-like than any he had yet witnessed; then, edging around the
crowd, he arrived at the cathedral, the most irregular and eccentric
that he had ever seen--a towering Gothic choir attached to an octagonal
Byzantine nave. But that nave is very impressive, as Stewart found when
he stepped inside it; and then, on a block of stone in its pavement, he
saw the words, “Carlo Magno,” and knew that he was at the tomb of the
great Emperor.

It is perhaps not really the tomb, but for emotional purposes it
answers very well, and there can be no question about the marble throne
and other relics which Stewart presently inspected, under the guidance
of a black-clad verger. Then, as there was a service in progress in the
choir, he sat down, at the verger’s suggestion, to wait till it was
over.

In a small chapel at his right, a group of candles glowed before an
altar dedicated to the Virgin, and here, on the low benches, many women
knelt in prayer. More and more slipped in quietly--young women, old
women, some shabby, some well-clad--until the benches were full; and
after that the newcomers knelt on the stone pavement and besought the
Mother of Christ to guard their sons and husbands and sweethearts,
summoned to fight the battles of the Emperor. Looking at them--at
their bowed heads, their drawn faces, their shrinking figures--Stewart
realized for the first time how terrible is the burden which war lays
on women. To bear sons, to rear them--only to see them march away when
the dreadful summons came; to bid good-by to husband or to lover,
crushing back the tears, masking the stricken heart; and then to wait,
day after dreary day, in agony at every rumor, at every knock, at every
passing footstep, with no refuge save in prayer----

But such thoughts were too painful. To distract them, he got out
his Baedeker and turned its pages absently until he came to Aachen.
First the railway stations--there were four, it seemed; then the
hotels--the Grand Monarque, the Nuellens, the Hôtel de l’Empereur, the
du Nord--strange that so many of them should be French, in name at
least!--the Monopol, the Imperial Crown--but where was the Kölner Hof?
He ran through the list again more carefully--no, it was not there.
And yet that police-officer at Cologne had asserted not only that it
was in Baedeker, but that it was honored with a star! Perhaps in the
German edition----

A touch on the arm apprised him that the verger was ready to take him
through the choir, where the service was ended, and Stewart slipped
his book back into his pocket and followed him. It is a lovely choir,
soaring toward the heavens in airy beauty, but Stewart had no eyes
for it. He found suddenly that he wanted to get away. He was vaguely
uneasy. The memory of those kneeling women weighed him down. For the
first time he really believed that war might come.

So he tipped the verger and left the church and came out into the
streets again, to find them emptier than ever. Nearly all the shops
were closed; there was no vehicle of any kind; there were scarcely any
people. And then, as he turned the corner into the wide square in front
of the town-hall, he saw where at least some of the people were, for a
great crowd had gathered there--a crowd of women and children and old
men--while from the steps before the entrance an official in gold-laced
uniform and cocked hat was delivering a harangue.

At first, Stewart could catch only a word here and there, but as he
edged closer, he found that the speech was a eulogy of the Kaiser--of
his high wisdom, his supreme greatness, his passionate love for his
people. The Kaiser had not sought war, he had strained every nerve for
peace; but the jealous enemies who ringed Germany round, who looked
with envy upon her greatness and dreamed only of destroying her, would
not give her peace. So, with firm heart and abiding trust in God,
the Emperor had donned his shining armor and unsheathed his sword,
confident that Germany would emerge from the struggle greater and
stronger than ever.

Then the speaker read the Emperor’s address, and reminded his hearers
that all they possessed, even to their lives and the lives of their
loved ones, belonged to their Fatherland, to be yielded ungrudgingly
when need arose. He cautioned them that the military power was now
supreme, not to be questioned. It would brook no resistance nor
interference. Disobedience would be severely dealt with. It was for
each of them to go quietly about his affairs, trusting in the Emperor’s
wisdom, and to pray for victory.

There were some scattered cheers, but the crowd for the most part stood
in dazed silence and watched two men put up beside the entrance to the
rathaus the proclamation which declared Germany in a state of war. Down
the furrowed cheeks of many of the older people the hot tears poured
in streams, perhaps at remembrance of the horrors and suffering of
Germany’s last war with France, and some partial realization that far
greater horrors and suffering were to come. Then by twos and threes
they drifted away to their homes, talking in bated undertone, or
shuffling silently along, staring straight before them. In every face
were fear and grief and a sullen questioning of fate.

Why had this horror been decreed for them? What had they done that this
terrible burden should be laid upon them? What could war bring any one
of them but sorrow and privation? Was there no way of escape? Had they
no voice in their own destiny? These were the questions which surged
through Stewart’s mind as he slowly crossed the square and made his
way along the silent streets back toward his hotel. At almost every
corner a red poster stared at him--a poster bearing the Prussian eagle
and the Kaiser’s name. “The sword has been thrust into our hands,” the
Kaiser wrote. “We must defend our Fatherland and our homes against the
assaults of our enemies. Forward with God, who will be with us, as He
was with our fathers!”

Sad as he had never been before, Stewart walked on. Something was
desperately wrong somewhere; this people did not want war--most
probably even the Kaiser did not want war. Yet war had come; the fate
of Europe was trembling in the balance; millions of men were being
driven to a detested task. Caught up in mighty armies by a force there
was no resisting, they were marching blindly to kill and be killed----

A sudden outbreak of angry voices in the street ahead startled Stewart
from his thoughts. A section of soldiers was halted before a house at
whose door a violent controversy was in progress between their sergeant
and a wrinkled old woman.

“I tell you we must have him,” the sergeant shouted, as though for the
twentieth time.

“And I tell you his wife is dying,” shrieked the woman. “He has
permission from his captain.”

“I know nothing about that. My orders are to gather in all stragglers.”

“It is only a question of a few hours.”

“He must come now,” repeated the sergeant, doggedly. “Those are the
orders. If he disobeys them--if I am compelled to use force--he will be
treated as a deserter. Will you tell him, or must I send my men in to
get him?”

The sunken eyes flamed with rage, the wrinkled face was contorted with
hate--but only for an instant. The flame died; old age, despair, the
habit of obedience, reasserted themselves. A tear trickled down the
cheek--a tear of helplessness and resignation.

“I will tell him, sir,” she said, and disappeared indoors.

The sergeant turned back to his men, cursing horribly to himself.
Suddenly he spat upon the pavement in disgust.

“A devil’s job!” he muttered, and took a short turn up and down,
without looking at his men. In a moment the old woman reappeared in the
door. “Well, mother?” he demanded, gruffly.

“I have told him. He will be here at once.”

As she spoke, a fair-haired youth of perhaps twenty appeared on the
threshold and saluted. His eyes were red with weeping, but he held
himself proudly erect.

“Hermann Gronau?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes.”

“Fall in!”

With a shriek of anguish, the woman threw her arms about him and
strained him close.

“My boy!” she moaned. “My youngest one--my baby--they are taking you
also!”

“I shall be back, mother, never fear,” he said, and loosened her arms
gently. “You will write me when--when it is over.”

“Yes,” she promised, and he took his place in the ranks.

“March!” cried the sergeant, and the section tramped away with Gronau
in its midst. At the corner, he turned and waved his hand in farewell
to the old woman. For a moment longer she stood clutching at the door
and staring at the place where he had vanished, then turned slowly back
into the house.



CHAPTER IV

THE MYSTERY OF THE SATIN SLIPPERS


STEWART, awakening from the contemplation of this poignant drama--one
of thousands such enacting at that moment all over Europe--realized
that he was lingering unduly and hastened his steps. At the end of five
minutes, he was again in the wide Franzstrasse, and, turning the last
corner, saw his landlady standing at her door, looking anxiously up and
down the street.

Her face brightened with relief when she saw him--a relief so evidently
deep and genuine that Stewart was a little puzzled by it.

“But I am glad to see you!” she cried as he came up, her face wreathed
in smiles. “I was imagining the most horrible things. I feared I know
not what! But you are safe, it seems.”

“Quite safe. In fact, I was never in any danger.”

“I was foolish, no doubt, to have fear. But in times like these, one
never knows what may happen.”

“True enough,” Stewart agreed. “Still, an American with a passport in
his pocket ought to be safe anywhere.”

“Ah; you have a passport--that is good. That will simplify matters. The
police have been here to question you. They will return presently.”

“The police?”

“There have been some spies captured, it seems. And there are many who
are trying to leave the country. So everyone is suspected. You are not
German-born, I hope? If you were, I fear not even your passport would
be of use.”

They had walked back together along the hall as they talked, and now
stopped at the foot of the stair. The landlady seemed very nervous--as
was perhaps natural amid the alarms of war. She scarcely listened
to his assurance that he was American by birth. Little beads of
perspiration stood out across her forehead----

“The police visited your room,” she rattled on. “You will perhaps find
your baggage disarranged.”

Stewart smiled wryly.

“So it seems they really suspect me?”

“They suspect everyone,” the landlady repeated.

She was standing with her back toward the door, and Stewart wondered
why she should watch his face so closely.

Suddenly, over her shoulder, he saw the ugly waiter with the hang-dog
air approaching along the hall.

“Such anxiety is quite natural,” said the landlady rapidly in
German, raising her voice a little. “I can understand it. But it is
not remarkable that you should have missed her--the trains are so
irregular. I will send her to you the moment she arrives. Ah, Hans,”
she added, turning at the sound of the waiter’s footsteps, “so you are
back at last! You will take up some hot water to the gentleman at once.
And now you will excuse me, sir; I have the dinner to attend to,” and
she hurried away, carrying the waiter with her.

Stewart stood for an instant staring after her; then he turned and
mounted slowly to his room. But what had the woman meant? Why should
he be anxious? Who was it he had missed? “I will send her to you
the moment she arrives.” No--she could not have said that--it was
impossible that she should have said that. He must have misunderstood;
his German was very second-rate, and she had spoken rapidly. But what
_had_ she said?

He was still pondering this problem, when a knock at the door told him
that the hot water had arrived. As he opened the door, the landlady’s
voice came shrilly up the stair.

“Hans!” she called. “There is something wrong with the stove. Hasten!
Hasten!”

Stewart took the can which was thrust hastily into his hand, turned
back into the room, and proceeded to make a leisurely toilet. If the
landlady had not told him, he would never have suspected that his
baggage had been searched by the police, for everything seemed to be
where he had left it. But then he was a hasty and careless packer, by
no means precise----

That vague feeling of uneasiness which had shaken him in the church
swept over him again, stronger than before; there was something wrong
somewhere; the meshes of an invisible net seemed closing about him.
More than once he caught himself standing quite still, in an attitude
of profound meditation, though he was not conscious that he had really
been thinking of anything. Evidently the events of the day had shaken
him more deeply than he had realized.

“Come, old man,” he said at last, “this won’t do. Pull yourself
together.”

And then a sudden vivid memory rose before him of those praying women,
of that wrinkled mother gazing despairingly after her youngest born
as he was marched away perhaps forever, of the set faces of the crowd
shuffling silently homeward----

He had been absently turning over the contents of one of his bags,
searching for a necktie, when he found himself staring at a pair
of satin ball-slippers, into each of which was stuffed a blue silk
stocking. For quite a minute he stared, doubting his own senses; then
he picked up one of the slippers and looked at it.

It was a tiny affair, very delicate and beautiful--a real jewel in
footwear, such as Stewart, with his limited feminine experience,
had never seen before. Indeed, he might have doubted that they were
intended for actual service, but for the slight discoloration inside
the heel, which proved that these had been worn more than once. Very
deliberately he drew out the stocking, also a jewel in its way, of a
texture so diaphanous as to be almost cobweblike. Then he picked up the
other slipper and held them side by side. Yes, they were mates----

“But where on earth could I have picked them up?” he asked himself. “In
what strange fit of absent-mindedness could I have packed them with my
things? But I couldn’t have picked them up--I never saw them before----”

He sat down suddenly, a slipper in either hand. They must have come
from somewhere--they could not have concealed themselves among his
things. If he had not placed them there, then someone else had. But
who? And for what purpose? The police? His landlady had said that they
had searched his luggage; but what possible object could they have
had for increasing it by two satin slippers and a pair of stockings?
Such an action was farcical--French-farcical!--but he could not be
incriminated in such a way. He had no wife to be made jealous! And even
if he had----

“This is the last straw!” he muttered to himself. “Either the world has
gone mad, or I have.”

Moving as in a dream, he placed the slippers side by side upon the
floor, contemplated them for a moment longer, and then proceeded slowly
with his dressing. He found an unaccustomed difficulty in putting his
buttons in his cuffs, and then he remembered that it was a tie he had
been looking for when he found the slippers. The slippers! He turned
and glanced at them. Yes--they were still there--they had not vanished.
Very coquettish they appeared, standing there side by side, as though
waiting for their owner.

And suddenly Stewart smiled a crooked smile.

“Only one thing is necessary to complete this pantomime,” he told
himself, “and that is that the Princess should suddenly appear and
claim them. Well, I’m willing! A woman with a foot like that----”

There was a knock at the door.

“In a moment!” he called.

“But it is I!” cried a woman’s voice in English--a sweet, high-pitched
voice, quivering with excitement. “It is I!” and the door was flung
open with a crash.

A woman rushed toward him--he saw vaguely her vivid face, her shining
eyes; behind her, more vaguely still, he saw the staring eyes of the
hang-dog waiter. Then she was upon him.

“At last!” she cried, and flung her arms about him and kissed him on
the lips--kissed him closely, passionately, as he had never been kissed
before.



CHAPTER V

ONE WAY TO ACQUIRE A WIFE


STEWART, standing petrified, collar in hand, thrilling with the warmth
of that caress, was conscious that his free arm had dropped about the
woman’s waist, and that she was cuddling to him, patting him excitedly
on the cheek and smiling up into his eyes. Then, over her shoulder, he
caught a glimpse of the sardonic smile on the ugly face of the waiter
as he withdrew and closed the door.

“But how glad I am!” the woman rattled on, at the top of her voice.
“And what a journey! I am covered with dirt! I shall need gallons of
water!”

She walked rapidly to the door, opened it, and looked out. Then she
closed and locked it, and, to his amazement, caught up one of his
handkerchiefs and hung it over the knob so that it masked the keyhole.

“They will not suspect,” she said, in a lower tone, noticing his look.
“They will suppose it is to conceal our marital endearments! Now we can
talk. But we will keep to English, if you do not mind. Someone might
pass. Is everything arranged? Is the passport in order?”

Her eyes were shining with excitement, her lips were trembling. As he
still stood staring, she came close to him and shook his arm.

“Can it be that you do not know English?” she demanded. “But that would
be too stupid! You understand English, do you not?”

“Yes, madam,” stammered Stewart. “At least, I have always thought so.”

“Then why do you not answer? Is anything wrong? You look as though you
did not expect me.”

“Madam,” answered Stewart, gravely, “will you kindly pinch me on the
arm--here in the tender part? I have been told that is a test.”

She nipped him with a violence that made him jump.

“Do not tell me that you are drunk!” she hissed, viciously. “That would
be too much! Drunk at such a moment!”

But Stewart had begun to pull himself together.

“No, madam, I am not drunk,” he assured her; “and your pinch convinces
me that I am not dreaming.” He rubbed his arm thoughtfully. “There
remains only one hypothesis--that I have suddenly gone mad. And yet
I have never heard of any madness in my family, nor until this moment
detected any symptoms in myself.”

“Is this a time for fooling?” she snapped. “Tell me at once----”

“There is, of course, another hypothesis,” went on Stewart, calmly,
“and that is that it is you who are mad----”

“Were you not expecting me?” she repeated.

Stewart’s eyes fell upon the satin slippers, and he smiled.

“Why, certainly I was expecting you,” he answered. “I was just saying
to myself that the only thing lacking in this fairy-tale was the
beautiful Cinderella--and presto; there you were!”

She looked at him wildly, her eyes dark with fear. Suddenly she caught
her lower lip between the thumb and little finger of her left hand, and
stood a moment expectantly, holding it so and staring up at him. Then,
as he stared back uncomprehendingly, she dropped into a chair and burst
into a flood of tears.

Now a pretty woman in tears is, as everyone knows, a sight to melt a
heart of stone, especially if that heart be masculine. This woman was
extremely pretty, and Stewart’s heart was very masculine, with nothing
granitic about it.

“Oh, come,” he protested, “it can’t be so bad as that! Let us sit
down and talk this thing out quietly. Evidently there is a mistake
somewhere.”

“Then you did not expect me?” she demanded, mopping her eyes.

“Expect you? No--except as the fulfillment of a fairy-tale.”

“You do not know who I am?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Nor why I am here?”

“No.”

“_Ah, ciel!_” she breathed, “then I am lost!” and she turned so pale
that Stewart thought she was going to faint.

“Lost!” he protested. “In what way lost? What do you mean?”

By a mighty effort she fought back the faintness and regained a little
of her self-control.

“At this hotel,” she explained, in a hoarse voice, “I was to have met a
man who was to accompany me across the frontier. He had a passport for
both of us--for himself and for his wife.”

“You were to pass as his wife?”

“Yes.”

“But you did not know the man?”

“Evidently--or I should not have----”

She stopped, her face crimson with embarrassment.

“H-m!” said Stewart, reflecting that he, at least, had no reason to
regret the mistake. “Perhaps this unknown is in some other room.”

“No; you are the only person in the hotel.”

“Evidently, then, he has not arrived.”

“Evidently,” she assented, and stared moodily at the floor, twisting
her handkerchief in nervous, trembling hands.

Stewart rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. She seemed
not more than twenty, and she was almost startlingly beautiful, with
that peculiar lustrous duskiness of skin more common among the Latin
races than with us. Slightly built, she yet gave the impression of
having in reserve unusual nervous energy, which would brace her to meet
any crisis.

But what was she doing here? Why should she be driven to leave Germany
as the wife of a man whom she had never seen? Or was it all a lie--was
she merely an adventuress seeking a fresh victim?

Stewart looked at her again, then he put that thought away, definitely
and forever. He had had enough experience of women, as surgeon in a
public clinic, to tell innocence from vice; and he knew that it was
innocence he was facing now.

“You say you can’t leave Germany without a passport?” he asked at last.

“No one can leave Germany without a passport.” She sat up suddenly and
looked at him, a new light in her eyes. “Is it possible,” she demanded,
with trembling lips, “can it be possible that you possess a passport?”

“Why, yes,” said Stewart, “I have a passport. Unfortunately, it is for
myself alone. Never having had a wife----”

But she was standing before him, her hands outstretched, tremulous with
eagerness.

“Let me see it!” she cried. “Oh, let me see it!”

He got it out, gave it to her, and watched her as she unfolded it. Here
was a woman, he told himself, such as he had never met before--a woman
of verve, of fire----

She was looking up at him with flaming eyes.

“Mr. Stewart,” she said, in a low voice, “you can save me, if you will.”

“Save you?” echoed Stewart. “But how?”

She held the open passport toward him.

“See, here, just below your name, there is a blank space covered with
little parallel lines. If you will permit me to write in that space the
words ‘accompanied by his wife,’ I am saved. The passport will then be
for both of us.”

“Or would be,” agreed Stewart, dryly, “if you were my wife. As it
happens, you are not!”

“It is such a little thing I ask of you,” she pleaded. “We go to the
station together--we take our seats in the train--at the frontier you
show your passport. An hour later we shall be at Liège, and there our
ways will part; but you will have done a noble action.”

There was witchery in her eyes, in her voice. Stewart felt himself
slipping--slipping; but he caught himself in time.

“I am afraid,” he said, gently, “that you will have to tell me first
what it is all about.”

“I can tell you in a word,” she answered, drawing very near to him, and
speaking almost in a whisper. “I am a Frenchwoman.”

“But surely,” Stewart protested, “the Germans will not prevent your
return to France! Why should they do that?”

“It is not a question of returning, but of escaping. I am an Alsatian.
I was born at Strassburg.”

“Oh,” said Stewart, remembering the tone in which Bloem had spoken of
Alsace-Lorraine and beginning vaguely to understand. “An Alsatian.”

“Yes; but only Alsatians understand the meaning of that word. To be an
Alsatian is to be a slave, is to be the victim of insult, oppression,
tyranny past all belief. My father was murdered by the Germans; my two
brothers have been dragged away into the German army and sent to fight
the Russians, since Germany knows well that no Alsatian corps would
fight the French! Oh, how we have prayed and prayed for this war of
restitution--the war which will give us back to France!”

“Yes; I hope it will,” agreed Stewart, heartily.

“Of a certainty you do!” she said, eagerly. “All Americans do. Not one
have I ever known who took the German side. How could they? How could
any American be on the side of despotism? Oh, impossible! America is on
our side! And you, as an American, will assist me to escape my enemies.”

“Your enemies?”

“I will not deceive you,” she said, earnestly. “I trust you. I have
lived all my life at Strassburg and at Metz, those two outposts against
France--those two great fortresses of cities which the Germans have
done their utmost to make impregnable, but which are not impregnable
if attacked in a certain way. They have their weak spot, just as every
fortress has. I have dissembled, I have lied--I have pretended to
admire the gold-laced pigs--I have permitted them to kiss my hand--I
have listened to their confidences, their hopes and fears--I have even
joined in their toast ‘The Day!’ Always, always have I kept my eyes and
ears open. Bit by bit, have I gathered what I sought--a hint here, a
hint there ... I must get to France, my friend, and you must help me!
Surely you will be glad to strike a blow at these braggart Prussians!
It is not for myself I ask it--though, if I am taken, there will be
for me only one brief moment, facing a file of soldiers; I ask it for
France--for your sister Republic!”

If it had been for France alone, Stewart might still have hesitated;
but as he gazed down into that eloquent face, wrung with desperate
anxiety, he seemed to see, as in a vision, a file of soldiers in spiked
helmets facing a wall where stood a lovely girl, her eyes flaming, her
head flung back, smiling contemptuously at the leveled rifles; he saw
again the flickering candles at the Virgin’s feet----

“Very well,” he said, abruptly-- almost harshly. “I consent.”

Before he could draw back, she had flung herself on her knees before
him, had caught his hand, and was covering it with tears and kisses.

“Come, come, my dear,” he said. “That won’t do!” And he bent over her
and raised her to her feet.

She was shaken with great sobs, and as she turned her streaming eyes up
to him, her lips moving as if in prayer, Stewart saw how young she was,
how lonely, how beautiful, how greatly in need of help. She had been
fighting for her country with all her strength, with every resource,
desperately, every nerve a-strain--and victory had been too much for
her. But in a moment she had back her self-control.

“There, it is finished!” she said, smiling through her tears. “But the
joy of your words was almost too great. I shall not behave like that
again. And I shall not try to thank you. I think you understand--I
cannot thank you--there are no words great enough.”

Stewart nodded, smilingly.

“Yes; I understand,” he said.

“We have many things to do,” she went on, rapidly, passing her
handkerchief across her eyes with the gesture of one who puts sentiment
aside. “First, the passport,” and she caught it up from the chair on
which she had laid it.

“I would point out to you,” said Stewart, “that there may be a certain
danger in adding the words you mentioned.”

“But it is precisely for those words this blank space has been left.”

“That may be true; but unless your handwriting is identical with that
on the rest of the passport, and the ink the same, the first person who
looks at it will detect the forgery.”

“Trust me,” she said, and drawing a chair to the table, laid the
passport before her and studied it carefully. From the little bag she
had carried on her arm, she took a fountain-pen. She tested it on her
finger-nail, and then, easily and rapidly, wrote “accompanied by his
wife” across the blank space below Stewart’s name.

Stewart, staring down over her shoulder, was astonished by the
cleverness of the forgery. It was perfect.

“There,” she added, “let it lie for five minutes and no one on earth
can tell that those words were not written at the same time and by the
same hand as all the others.”

A sudden doubt shook her hearer. Where had she learned to forge like
that? Perhaps, after all----

She read his thought in his eyes.

“To imitate handwriting is something which every member of the secret
service must learn to do. This, on your passport, is a formal hand very
easily imitated. But I must rid myself of this pen.”

She glanced quickly about the room, went to the open fireplace and
threw the pen above the bricks which closed it off from the flue. Then
she came back, motioned him to sit down, and drew a chair very close to
his.

“Now we have certain details to arrange,” she said. “Your name is
Bradford Stewart?”

“Yes.”

“Have you a sobriquet?”

“A what?”

“A name of familiarity,” she explained, “used only by your family or
your friends.”

“Oh, a nickname! Well,” he admitted, unwillingly, “my father always
called me Tommy.”

“Tommy! Excellent! I shall call you Tommy!”

“But I detest Tommy,” he objected.

“No matter!” she said, peremptorily. “It will have to do. What is your
profession?”

“I am a surgeon.”

“Where do you live in America?”

“At Baltimore, in the State of Maryland.”

“Where have you been in Europe?”

“To a clinical congress at Vienna, and then back through Germany.”

“Perfect! It could not be better! Now, listen most carefully. The name
of your wife is Mary. You have been married four years.”

“Any children?” asked Stewart.

“Please be serious!” she protested, but from the sparkle in her eye
Stewart saw that she was not offended.

“I should have liked a boy of three and a girl of two,” he explained.
“But no matter--go ahead.”

“While you went to Vienna to attend your horrible clinic and learn new
ways of cutting up human bodies, your wife remained at Spa, because of
a slight nervous affection----”

“From which,” said Stewart, “I am happy to see that she has entirely
recovered.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “she is quite well again. Spa is in Belgium, so the
Germans cannot disprove the story. We arranged to meet here and to go
on to Brussels together. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Stewart, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. “By
the way, Mary,” he added, “no doubt it was your shoes and stockings
I found in my grip awhile ago,” and he pointed to where the slippers
stood side by side.

His companion stared at them for an instant in amazement, then burst
into a peal of laughter.

“How ridiculous! But yes--they were intended for mine.”

“How did they get into my luggage?”

“The woman who manages this inn placed them there. She is one of us.”

“But what on earth for?”

“So that the police might find them when they searched your bags.”

“Why should they search my bags?”

“There is a certain suspicion attaching to this place. It is impossible
altogether to avoid it--so it is necessary to be very careful. The
landlady thought that the discovery of the slippers might, in a
measure, prepare the police for the arrival of your wife.”

“Then she knew you were coming?”

“Certainly--since last night.”

“And when the man who was to meet you did not arrive, she decided that
I would do?”

“I suppose so.”

“But how did she know I had a passport?”

“Perhaps you told her.”

Yes, Stewart reflected, he had told her, and yet he was not altogether
satisfied. When had he told her? Surely it was not until he returned
from his tour of the town; then there was not time----

“Here is your passport,” said his companion, abruptly breaking in upon
his thoughts. “Fold it up and place it in your pocket. And do not find
it too readily when the police ask for it. You must seem not to know
exactly where it is. Also pack your belongings. Yes, you would better
include the slippers. Meanwhile I shall try to make myself a little
presentable,” and she opened the tiny bag from which she had produced
the pen.

“It seems to me,” said Stewart, as he proceeded to obey, “that one pair
of slippers and one pair of stockings is rather scanty baggage for a
lady who has been at Spa for a month.”

“My baggage went direct from Spa to Brussels,” she answered from before
the mirror, “in order to avoid the customs examination at the frontier.
Have you any other questions?”

“Only the big one as to who you really are, and where I’m going to see
you again after you have delivered your report--and all that.”

His back was toward her as he bent over his bags, and he did not see
the quick glance she cast at him.

“It is impossible to discuss that now,” she said, hastily. “And I would
warn you that the servant, Hans, is a spy. Be very careful before
him--be careful always, until we are safe across the frontier. There
will be spies everywhere--a false word, a false movement, and all may
be lost. Are you ready?”

Stewart, rising from buckling the last strap, found himself confronting
the most adorable girl he had ever seen. Every trace of the journey had
disappeared. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were shining, and when
she smiled, Stewart noticed a dimple set diagonally at the corner of
her mouth--a dimple evidently placed just there to invite and challenge
kisses.

The admiration which flamed into his eyes was perhaps a trifle too
ardent, for, looking at him steadily, she took a quick step toward him.

“We are going to be good friends, are we not?” she asked. “Good
comrades?”

And Stewart, looking down at her, understood. She was pleading for
respect; she was telling him that she trusted him; she was reminding
him of the defenselessness of her girlhood, driven by hard necessity
into this strange adventure. And, understanding, he reached out and
caught her hand.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Good comrades. Just that!”

She gave his fingers a swift pressure.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now we must go down. Dinner will be waiting.
Fortunately the train is very late.”

Stewart, glancing at his watch, saw that it was almost six o’clock.

“You are sure it is late?” he asked.

“Yes; at least an hour. We will send someone to inquire. Remember what
I have told you about the waiter--about everyone. Not for an instant
must we drop the mask, even though we may think ourselves unobserved.
You will remember?”

“I will try to,” Stewart promised. “But don’t be disappointed if you
find me a poor actor. I am not in your class at all. However, if you’ll
give me the cue, I think I can follow it.”

“I know you can. Come,” and she opened the door, restoring him the
handkerchief which she had hung over the knob.

As they went down the stair together, Stewart saw the landlady waiting
anxiously at the foot. One glance at them, and her face became radiant.

“Ah, you are late!” she cried, shaking a reproving finger. “But I
expected it. I would not permit Hans to call you. When husband and wife
meet after a long separation, they do not wish to be disturbed--not
even for dinner. This way! I have placed the table in the court--it
is much pleasanter there when the days are so warm,” and she bustled
before them to a vine-shaded corner of the court, where a snowy table
awaited them.

A moment later Hans entered with the soup. Stewart, happening to meet
his glance, read the suspicion there.

“Well,” he said, breaking off a piece of the crisp bread, “this is
almost like home, isn’t it? I can’t tell you, Mary, how glad I am to
have you back again,” and he reached out and gave her hand a little
squeeze. “Looking so well, too. Spa was evidently just the place for
you.”

“Yes--it was very pleasant and the doctor was very kind. But I am glad
to get back to you, Tommy,” she added, gazing at him fondly. “I could
weep with joy just to look at that honest face of yours!”

Stewart felt his heart skip a beat.

“You will make me conceited, if you don’t take care, old lady!” he
protested. “And surely I’ve got enough cause for conceit already, with
the most beautiful woman in the world sitting across from me, telling
me she loves me. Don’t blame me if I lose my head a little!”

The ardor in his tone brought the color into her cheeks.

“You must not look at me like that!” she reproved. “People will think
we are on our moon of--our honeymoon,” she corrected, hastily.

“Instead of having been married four years! I wonder how John and
Sallie are getting along? Aren’t you just crazy to see the kids!”

She choked over her soup, but managed to nod mutely. Then, as Hans
removed the plates and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, he
added in a lower tone, “You must allow me the children. I find I can’t
be happy without them!”

“Very well,” she agreed, the dimple sparkling. “You have been so kind
that it is impossible for me to refuse you anything!”

“There is one thing I can’t understand. Your English astonishes me.
Where did you learn to speak it so perfectly?”

“Ah, that is a long story! Perhaps I shall one day tell it to you--if
we ever meet again.”

“We must! I demand that as my reward!”

She held up a warning finger as steps sounded along the passage;
but it was only the landlady bringing the wine. That good woman was
exuberant--a trifle too exuberant, as Stewart’s companion told her with
a quick glance.

The dinner proceeded from course to course. Stewart had never enjoyed
a meal more thoroughly. What meal, he asked himself, could possibly be
commonplace, shared by such a woman?

The landlady presently dispatched Hans to the station to inquire
about the train, while she herself did the serving, and the two women
ventured to exchange a few words concerning their instructions.
Stewart, listening, caught a glimpse of an intricate system of
espionage extending to the very heart of Germany. But he asked no
questions; indeed, some instinct held him back from wishing to know
more. “Spy” is not a pretty word, nor is a spy’s work pretty work; he
refused to think of it in connection with the lovely girl opposite him.

“We shall have the police with us soon,” said the landlady, in a low
tone. “Hans will run at once to tell them of Madame’s arrival.”

“Why do you keep him?” Stewart asked.

“It is by keeping him that I avert suspicion. If there was anything
wrong here, the police tell themselves, this spy of theirs would
discover it. Knowing him to be a spy, I am on my guard. Besides, he is
very stupid. But there--I will leave you. He may be back at any moment.”

He came back just in time to serve the coffee, with the information
that their train would not arrive until seven-thirty; then he stood
watching them and listening to their talk of home and friends and plans
for the future.

Stewart began to be proud of his facility of invention, and of his
abilities as an actor. But he had to admit that he was the merest
bungler compared with his companion. Her mental quickness dazzled him,
her high spirits were far more exhilarating than the wine. He ended by
forgetting that he was playing a part. This woman was really his wife,
they were going on together----

Suddenly Hans stirred in his corner. Heavy steps were coming toward the
court along the sanded floor of the corridor. In a moment three men in
spiked helmets stepped out into the fading light of the evening.

“The police to speak to you, sir,” said Hans, and Stewart, turning,
found himself looking into three faces, in which hostility and
suspicion were only too apparent.



CHAPTER VI

THE SNARE


AS the three men advanced to the table, Stewart saw that each of them
carried a heavy pistol in a holster at his belt.

“You speak German?” one of them asked, gruffly.

“A little. But I would prefer to speak English,” answered Stewart.

“We will speak German. What is your nationality?”

“I am an American.”

“Were you born in America?”

“Yes.”

“Have you a passport?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

Stewart was about to reach into his pocket and produce it, when he
remembered his companion’s suggestion. So he felt in one pocket after
another without result, while the Germans shifted impatiently from foot
to foot.

“It must be in my other coat,” he said, half to himself, enjoying the
situation immensely. “But no; I do not remember changing it. Ah, here
it is!” and he drew it forth and handed it to the officer.

The latter took it, unfolded it, and stepped out into the court where
the light was better. He read it through carefully, compared the
description point by point with Stewart’s appearance, and then came
back to the table.

“Who is this person?” he asked, and nodded toward the girl.

“She is my wife,” answered Stewart, with a readiness which astonished
himself.

“She did not arrive here with you.”

“No,” and he told the story of how he had left her at Spa to recuperate
from a slight nervous attack, while he himself went on to Vienna.
He omitted no detail--even added a few, indeed, in the fervor of
creation--and with his limited German, which his hearers regarded with
evident contempt, the story took some time to tell.

The police listened attentively to every word, without the slightest
sign of impatience, but long before it was ended, the lady in question
was twisting nervously in her seat.

“What is the matter, Tommy?” she demanded, petulantly. “Are you
relating to them the story of your life?”

“No,” he explained, blandly, venturing at last to look at her, “I was
just telling them how it was that you and I had arranged to meet at
this hotel.”

“Well--now tell them to go away. They are ugly and they annoy me.”

“What does she say?” asked the officer.

Stewart was certain that at least one of them knew English, so he
judged it best to translate literally.

“She wants to know what is the matter,” he answered. “She asks me to
tell you to go away--that you annoy her.”

The officer smiled grimly.

“She does not understand German?”

“Not a word,” lied Stewart, glibly.

“What is her name?”

“Mary.”

“Her maiden name?”

“Mary Agnes Fleming,” answered Stewart, repeating the first name that
occurred to him, and thanking his stars the next instant that the
officer could scarcely be acquainted with the lesser lights of English
fiction.

“Is that correct?” asked the officer, suddenly turning upon her.

Stewart’s heart gave a leap of fear; but after a stare at the officer,
she turned to her companion.

“Was he speaking to me, Tommy?” she asked; and it was only by a heroic
effort that Stewart choked back the sudden snort of laughter that rose
in his throat.

“Yes,” he managed to answer; “he wants to know your maiden name.”

“Why should he wish to know that?”

“I give it up; but you’d better tell him.”

“My maiden name was Mary Agnes Fleming,” she said, looking at the
officer with evident disapprobation. “Though what concern it is of
yours I cannot see.”

“What does she say?” demanded the officer, and again Stewart translated
literally.

The officer stood staring intently at both of them, till the lady, with
a flash of indignation, turned her back.

“Really, Tommy,” she said, over her shoulder, “if you do not at once
get rid of this brute, I shall never speak to you again!”

“He is a policeman, dear,” Stewart explained, “and imagines that he is
doing his duty. I suppose they _do_ have to be careful in war-time. We
must be patient.”

“I will look at her passport,” said the German, suddenly, and held out
his hand.

“My passport is for both of us,” Stewart explained. “Those words
‘accompanied by his wife,’ make it inclusive.”

The officer went out into the light again and examined the words with
minute attention.

“I find no description of her,” he said, coming back.

“There is none,” assented Stewart, impatiently; “but there is a
description of me, as you see. The passport adds that I am accompanied
by my wife. I tell you that this lady is my wife. That is sufficient.”

The officer glanced at his companions uncertainly. Then he slowly
folded up the passport and handed it back.

“When do you depart from Aachen?” he asked.

“By the first train for Brussels. I am told that it will arrive in
about half an hour.”

“Very well,” said the other. “I regret if I have seemed insistent, but
the fact that the lady did not arrive with you appeared to us singular.
I will report your explanation to my chief,” and he turned on his heel
and stalked away, followed by his men.

Stewart drew a deep breath.

“Well,” he began, when he was stopped by a sharp tap from his
companion’s foot.

“Such impudence!” she cried. “I was astonished at your patience, Tommy!
You, an American, letting a Prussian policeman intimidate you like
that! I am ashamed of you!”

Glancing around, Stewart saw the hang-dog Hans hovering in the doorway.

“He was a big policeman, my dear,” he explained, laughing. “I shouldn’t
have had much of a chance with him, to say nothing of his two men. If
we want to get to Brussels, the safest plan is to answer calmly all the
questions the German police can think of. But it is time for us to be
going. There will be no reserved seats on this train!”

“You are right,” agreed his companion; “I am quite ready.”

So he asked for the bill, paid it, sent Hans up for the luggage, and
presently they were walking toward the station, with Hans staggering
along behind.

Stewart, looking down at his companion, felt more and more elated over
the adventure. He had never passed a pleasanter evening--it had just
the touch of excitement needed to give it relish. Unfortunately, its
end was near; an hour or two in a crowded railway carriage, and--that
was all!

She glanced up at him and caught his eyes.

“What is it, my friend?” she asked. “You appear sad.”

“I was just thinking,” answered Stewart, “that I do not even know your
name!”

“Speak lower!” she said, quickly. “Or, better still, do not say such
things at all. Do not drop the mask for an instant until we are out of
Germany.”

“Very well,” Stewart promised. “But once we are across the border, I
warn you that I intend to throw the mask away, and that I shall have
certain very serious things to say to you.”

“And I promise to listen patiently,” she answered, smiling.

At the entrance to the station, they were stopped by a guard, who
demanded their tickets. Stewart was about to produce his, when his
companion touched him on the arm.

“Hasten and get them, Tommy,” she said. “I will wait here.”

And Stewart, as he hurried away, trembled to think how nearly he had
blundered. For how could he have explained to the authorities the fact
that he was traveling with a book of Cook’s circular tickets, while
his wife was buying her tickets from station to station?

There was a long line of people in front of the ticket-office, and
their progress was slow, for two police officers stood at the head of
the line and interrogated every applicant for a ticket before they
would permit it to be given him. Stewart, as he moved slowly forward,
saw two men jerked violently out of the line and placed under arrest;
he wondered uncomfortably if the officers had any instructions with
regard to him, but, when his turn came, he faced them as unconcernedly
as he was able. He explained that he and his wife were going to
Brussels, showed his passport, and finally hastened away triumphant
with the two precious bits of pasteboard. It seemed to him that the
last difficulty had been encountered and overcome, and it was only by
an effort that he kept himself from waving the tickets in the air as he
rejoined his companion. In another moment, they were past the barrier.
Hans was permitted to enter with them, and mounted guard over the
luggage.

The platform was thronged with a motley and excited crowd, among whom
were many officers in long gray coats and trailing swords, evidently on
their way to join their commands. They were stalking up and down, with
a lofty disregard for base civilians, talking loudly, gesticulating
fiercely, and stopping ever and anon to shake hands solemnly. Stewart
was watching them with an amusement somewhat too apparent, for his
companion suddenly passed her arm through his.

“I should like to walk a little,” she said. “I have been sitting too
long.” Then, in a lower tone, as they started along the platform, “It
would be more wise not to look at those idiots. They would seek a
quarrel with you in an instant if they suspected it was at them you
were smiling.”

“You are right,” Stewart agreed; “besides, there is someone else whom
I think much better worth looking at! The officers seem to share my
opinion,” he added, for more than one head was turned as they walked
slowly down the platform. “I shall be jealous in a moment!”

“Do not talk nonsense! Nothing is so absurd as for a man to make love
to his wife in public!”

Stewart would have liked to retort that he had, as yet, had mighty few
opportunities in private, but he judged it best to save that remark for
the other side of the frontier.

“Just the same,” she rattled on, “it was good of you to write so
regularly while you were at Vienna. I am sure your letters helped with
my cure. But you have not told me--have you secured our passage?”

“I will know when we get to Brussels. Cook is trying to get us an
outside room on the _Adriatic_.”

“Do we go back to England?”

“Not unless we wish to. We can sail from Cherbourg.”

They had reached the end of the platform, and, as they turned, Stewart
found himself face to face with a bearded German who had been close
behind them, and who shot a sharp glance at him and his companion
before stepping aside with a muttered apology. Not until they had
passed him did Stewart remember that he had seen the man before. It
was the surly passenger in the crowded compartment on the journey from
Cologne.

His companion had not seemed to notice the fellow, and went on talking
of the voyage home and how glad she would be to get there. Not until
they turned again at the farther end, and found the platform for a
moment clear around them, did she relax her guard.

“That man is a spy,” she whispered, quickly. “We are evidently still
suspected. What sort of railroad ticket have you?”

“A book of Cook’s coupons.”

“I feared as much. You must rid yourself of it--it is quite possible
that you will be searched at the frontier. No, no,” she added,
as Stewart put his hand to his pocket. “Not here! You would be
seen--everything would be lost. I will devise a way.”

Stewart reflected with satisfaction that only a few coupons were left
in the book. But why should he be searched? He had thought the danger
over; but he began uneasily to suspect that it was just beginning.
Well, it was too late to draw back, even had he wished to do so; and
most emphatically he did not. He was willing to risk a good deal for
another hour of this companionship--and then there was that explanation
at the end--his reward----

There was a sharp whistle down the line, and the train from Cologne
rolled slowly in.

“First class,” said Stewart to Hans, as the latter picked up the
luggage; and then he realized that they would be fortunate if they
got into the train at all. The first five carriages were crowded with
soldiers; then there were two carriages half-filled with officers,
upon whom no one ventured to intrude. The three rear carriages were
already crowded with a motley throng of excited civilians, and Stewart
had resigned himself to standing up, when Hans shouted, “This way, sir;
this way!” and started to run as fast as the heavy suit-cases would
permit.

Stewart, staring after him, saw that an additional carriage was being
pushed up to be attached to the train.

“That fellow has more brains than I gave him credit for,” he said.
“Come along!”

Before the car had stopped, Hans, with a disregard of the regulations
which proved how excited he was, had wrenched open the door of the
first compartment and clambered aboard. By the time they reached it,
he had the luggage in the rack and sprang down to the platform with a
smile of triumph.

“Good work!” said Stewart. “I didn’t think you had it in you!” and he
dropped a generous tip into the waiting hand. “Come, my dear,” and he
helped his companion aboard. Hans slammed the door shut after them,
touched his cap, and hurried away. “Well, that was luck!” Stewart
added, and dropped to the seat beside his companion. “But look out for
the deluge in another minute!”

She was looking out of the window at the excited mob sweeping along the
platform.

“The crowd is not coming this way,” she said, after a moment. “A line
of police is holding it back. I think this carriage is intended for the
officers.”

Stewart groaned.

“Then we shall have to get out! Take my advice and don’t wait to be
asked twice!”

“Perhaps they will not need this corner. In any case, we will stay
until they put us out. If you are wise, you will forget all the German
you know and flourish your passport frequently. Germans are always
impressed by a red seal!”

But, strangely enough, they were not disturbed. A number of officers
approached the carriage, and, after a glance at its inmates, passed on
to the other compartments. Stewart, putting his head out of the window,
saw that the line of police were still keeping back the crowd.

“Really,” he said, “this seems too good to be true. It looks as if we
were going to have this compartment to ourselves.”

He turned smilingly to glance at her, and the smile remained frozen on
his lips. For her face was deathly pale, her eyes were staring, and she
was pressing her hands tight against her heart.

“You’re not ill?” he asked, genuinely startled.

“Only very tired,” she answered, controlling her voice with evident
difficulty. “I think I shall try to rest a little,” and she settled
herself more comfortably in her corner. “The journey from Spa quite
exhausted me.” Then with her lips she formed the words “Be careful!”

“All right,” said Stewart. “Go to sleep if you can.”

She gave him a warning glance from under half-closed lids, then laid
her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

Stewart, after a last look along the platform, raised the window
half-way to protect his companion from the draft, then dropped into
the corner opposite her and got out a cigar and lighted it with
studied carelessness--though he was disgusted to see that his hand
was trembling. He was tingling all over with the sudden sense of
danger--tingling as a soldier tingles as he awaits the command to
charge.

But what danger could there be? And then he thrilled at a sudden
thought. Was this compartment intended as a trap? Had they been guided
to it and left alone here in the hope that, thrown off their guard,
they would in some way incriminate themselves? Was there an ear glued
to some hole in the partition--the ear of a spy crouching in the next
compartment?

Stewart pulled his hat forward over his eyes as though to shield them
from the light. Then he went carefully back over the sequence of events
which had led them to this compartment. It was Hans who had brought
them to it--and Hans was a spy. It was he who had selected it, who had
stood at the door so that they would go no farther. It was he who had
slammed the door.

Was the door locked? Stewart’s hand itched to try the handle; but
he did not dare. Someone was perhaps watching as well as listening.
But that they should be permitted to enter a carriage reserved for
officers--that, on a train so crowded, they should be undisturbed in
the possession of a whole compartment--yes, it was proof enough!

The station-master’s whistle echoed shrilly along the platform, and the
train glided slowly away.

Darkness had come, and as the train threaded the silent environs of the
town, Stewart wondered why the streets seemed so gloomy. Looking again,
he understood. Only a few of the street lights were burning. Already
the economies of war had begun.

The train entered a long tunnel, at whose entrance a file of soldiers
with fixed bayonets stood on guard. At regular intervals, the light
from the windows flashed upon an armed patrol. Farther on, a deep
valley was spanned by a great viaduct, and here again there was a heavy
guard. The valley widened, and suddenly as they swept around a curve,
Stewart saw a broad plain covered with flaring lights. They were the
lights of field-kitchens; and, looking at them, Stewart realized that
a mighty army lay encamped here, ready to be hurled against the French
frontier.

And then he remembered that this was not the French frontier, but the
frontier of Belgium. Could the landlady of the Kölner Hof have been
mistaken? To make sure, he got out his Baedeker and looked at the
map. No; the French frontier lay away to the south. There was no way
to reach it from this point save across Belgium. It was at Belgium,
then, that the first blow was aimed--Belgium whose neutrality and
independence had been guaranteed by all the Powers of Europe!

He put the book away and sat gazing thoughtfully out into the night. As
far as the eye could reach gleamed the fires of the mighty bivouac. The
army itself was invisible in the darkness, for the men had not thought
it worth while to put up their shelter tents on so fine a night; but
along the track, from time to time, passed a shadowy patrol; once,
as the train rolled above a road, Stewart saw that it was packed with
transport wagons.

Then, suddenly, the train groaned to a stop.

“The frontier!” said Stewart to himself, and glanced at his companion,
but she, to all appearance, was sleeping peacefully. “We shall be
delayed here,” he thought, “for the troops to detrain,” and he lowered
the window and put out his head to watch them do it.

The train had stopped beside a platform, and Stewart was astonished at
its length. It stretched away and away into the distance, seemingly
without end. And it was empty, save for a few guards.

The doors behind him were thrown open and the officers sprang out and
hurried forward. From the windows in front of him, Stewart could see
curious heads projecting; but the forward coaches gave no sign of life.
Not a door was opened; not a soldier appeared.

“Where are we? What has happened?” asked his companion’s voice, and he
turned to find her rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“We are at the frontier, I suppose,” he answered. “No doubt we shall go
on as soon as the troops detrain.”

“I hope they will not be long.”

“They haven’t started yet, but of course--by George!” he added, in
another tone, “they aren’t getting out! The guards are driving the
people out of the cars ahead of us!”

The tumult of voices raised in angry protest drew nearer. Stewart could
see that the carriages were being cleared, and in no gentle manner.
There was no pause for explanation or argument--just a terse order
which, if not instantly obeyed, was followed by action. Stewart could
not help smiling, for, in that Babel of tongues, he distinguished a lot
of unexpurgated American!

“There’s no use getting into a fight with them,” he said,
philosophically, as he turned back into the compartment and lifted down
his suit-cases. “We might as well get out before we’re put out,” and he
tried to open the door.

It was locked.

The certainty that they were trapped turned him a little giddy.

“Who the devil could have locked this door?” he demanded, shaking the
handle savagely.

“Seat yourself, Tommy,” his companion advised. “Do not excite
yourself--and have your passport ready. Perhaps they will not put us
off.”

And then a face, crowned by the ubiquitous spiked helmet, appeared at
the window.

“You will have to get out,” said the man in German, and tried to open
the door.

Stewart shook his head to show that he didn’t understand, and produced
his passport.

The man waved it impatiently away, and wrenched viciously at the door,
purple with rage at finding it locked. Then he shouted savagely at
someone farther up the platform.

“I have always been told that the Germans were a phlegmatic people,”
observed Stewart; “but as a matter of fact, they blow up quicker and
harder than anybody I ever saw. Look at that fellow, now----”

But at that moment a guard came running up, produced a key, and opened
the door.

“Come, get out!” said the man, with a gesture there was no mistaking,
and Stewart, picking up his bags, stepped out upon the platform and
helped his companion to alight.

“How long will we be detained here?” he asked in English; but the man,
with a contemptuous shrug, motioned him to stand back.

Looking along the platform, Stewart saw approaching the head of an
infantry column. In a moment, the soldiers were clambering into the
coaches, with the same mathematical precision he had seen before. But
there was something unfamiliar in their appearance; and, looking more
closely, Stewart saw that their spiked helmets were covered with gray
cloth, and that not a button or bit of gilt glittered anywhere on the
gray-green field uniforms. Wonderful forethought, he told himself.
By night these troops would be quite invisible; by day they would be
merged indistinguishably with the brown soil of the fields, the gray
trunks of trees, the green of hedges.

The train rolled slowly out of the station, and Stewart saw that on the
track beyond there was another, also loaded with troops. In a moment,
it started westward after the first; and beyond it a third train lay
revealed.

Stewart, glancing at his companion, was startled by the whiteness of
her face, the steely glitter of her eyes.

“It looks like a regular invasion,” he said. “But let us find out
what’s going to happen to us. We can’t stand here all night. Good
heavens--what is that?”

From the air above them came the sudden savage whirr of a powerful
engine, and, looking up, they saw a giant shape sweep across the sky.
It was gone in an instant.

“A Zeppelin!” said Stewart, and felt within himself a thrill of wonder
and exultation. Oh, this would be a great war! It would be like no
other ever seen upon this earth. It would be fought in the air, as well
as on the land; in the depths of the ocean, as well as on its surface.
At last all theories were to be put to the supreme test!

“You will come with me,” said the man in the helmet, and Stewart, with
a nod, picked up his grips again before he remembered that he was
supposed to be ignorant of German.

“Did you say there was another train?” he asked. “Shall we be able to
get away?”

The man shook his head and led the way along the platform, without
glancing to the right or left. As they passed the bare little
station, they saw that it was jammed to the doors with men and women
and children, mixed in an indiscriminate mass, and evidently most
uncomfortable. But their guide led them past it without stopping, and
Stewart breathed a sigh of relief. Anything would be better than to be
thrust into that crowd!

Again he had cause to wonder at the length of that interminable
platform; but at last, near its farther end, their guide stopped
before a small, square structure, whose use Stewart could not even
guess, and flung open the door.

“You will enter here,” he said.

“But look here,” Stewart protested, “we are American citizens. You have
no right----”

The man signed to them to hurry. There was something in the gesture
which stopped the words on Stewart’s lips.

“Oh, damn the fool!” he growled, swallowing hard. “Come along, my dear;
there’s no use to argue,” and, bending his head at the low door, he
stepped inside.

In an instant, the door was slammed shut, and the snap of a lock told
them that they were prisoners.



CHAPTER VII

IN THE TRAP


AS Stewart set down his bags, still swearing softly to himself, he
heard behind him the sound of a stifled sob.

“There! there!” he said. “We’ll soon be all right!” and as he turned
swiftly and reached out his arms to grope for her, it seemed to him
that she walked right into them.

“Oh, oh!” she moaned, and pressed close against him. “What will they do
to us? Why have they placed us here?” And then he felt her lips against
his ear. “Be careful!” she whispered in the merest breath. “There is an
open window!”

Stewart’s heart was thrilling. What a woman! What an actress! Well, he
would prove that he, too, could play a part.

“They will do nothing to us, dear,” he answered, patting her shoulder.
“They will not dare to harm us! Remember, we are Americans!”

“But--but why should they place us here?”

“I don’t know--I suppose they have to be careful. I’ll appeal to our
ambassador in the morning. He’ll soon bring them to their senses. So
don’t worry!”

“But it is so dark!” she complained. “And I am so tired. Can we not
seat ourselves somewhere?”

“We can sit on our bags,” said Stewart. “Wait!” In a moment he had
found them and placed them one upon the other. “There you are. Now let
us see what sort of a place we’ve come to.”

He got out his match-box and struck a light. The first flare almost
blinded him; then, holding the match above his head, he saw they were
in a brick cubicle, about twenty feet square. There was a single small
window, without glass but heavily barred. The place was empty, save for
a pile of barrels against one end.

“It’s a store-house of some kind,” he said, and then he sniffed
sharply. “Gasoline! I’d better not strike any more matches.”

He sat down beside her and for some moments they were silent. Almost
unconsciously, his arm found its way about her waist. She did not draw
away.

“Do you suppose they will keep us here all night?” she asked, at last.

“Heaven knows! They seem capable of any folly!”

And then again he felt her lips against his ear.

“We must destroy your ticket,” she breathed. “Can you find it in the
dark?”

“I think so.” He fumbled in an inside pocket and drew it out. “Here it
is.”

Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.

“Now talk to me,” she said.

Stewart talked at random, wondering how she intended to destroy the
ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once,
when she spoke in answer to a question, her voice seemed strange and
muffled.

“It is done,” she whispered at last. “Place these in your pocket and
continue talking.”

Her groping hand touched his and he found himself grasping two minute
objects whose nature he could not guess, until, feeling them carefully,
he found them to be the small wire staples which had held the coupons
of the ticket together. He slipped them into his waistcoat pocket; and
then, as he began to tell her about the women from Philadelphia and the
journey from Cologne, he was conscious that she was no longer beside
him. But at the end of a moment she was back again.

“That girl was perfectly right,” she said. “Women are very silly to try
to travel about Europe without a man as escort. Consider how I should
feel at this moment if I did not have you!”

But in spite of themselves, the conversation lagged; and they finally
sat silent.

How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he who,
until to-day, had seen his life stretching before him ordered and
prosaic, cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventure. Here was
this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to
have known for years--whom he certainly knew better than he had ever
known any other woman There was Bloem--he had been cast into adventure,
too. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up
at the stars and wondering at Fate? And the thousands themselves--the
millions mustering at this moment into the armies of Europe--to what
tragic adventure were they being hurried!

A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was
the snap of a lock, and the door swung open.

“You will come out,” said a voice in English.

Against the lights of the station, Stewart saw outlined the figure of
a man in uniform. He rose wearily.

“Come, dear,” he said, and helped her to her feet; “it seems we are to
go somewhere else.” Then he looked down at the heavy bags. “I can’t
carry those things all over creation,” he said; “what’s more, I won’t.”

“I will attend to that,” said the stranger, and put a whistle to his
lips and blew a shrill blast. Two men came running up. “You will take
those bags,” he ordered. “Follow me,” he added to Stewart.

They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and
came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one
side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.

“I shall have to search them,” said the officer. “Are they locked?”

He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for
the first time, Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of
surprise.

“I see you recognize me,” he said. “Yes--I was in your compartment
coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?”

“No,” said Stewart.

He watched with affected listlessness as the officer undid the straps
and raised the lids. But his mind was very busy. Had he said anything
during that ride from Cologne which he would now have reason to regret?
Had he intimated that he was unmarried? He struggled to recall the
conversation, sentence by sentence, but could remember nothing that was
actually incriminating. And yet, in mentioning his intended stop at
Aix-la-Chapelle, he had not added that he was to meet his wife there,
and he had made a tentative arrangement to see Miss Field again in
Brussels. The talk, in other words, had been carried on from the angle
of a bachelor with no one to think of but himself, and not from that of
a married man with a wife to consider.

It was certainly unfortunate that the man who had happened to overhear
that conversation should be the one detailed here to examine his
luggage. How well did he know English? Was he acute enough to catch the
implications of the conversation, or would a disregard of one’s wife
seem natural to his Teutonic mind? Stewart glanced at him covertly; and
then his attention was suddenly caught and held by the extreme care
with which the man examined the contents of the bags.

He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the
linings with his finger-tips, ripped open one where he detected some
unusual thickness only to discover a strip of reënforcement, opened
and read carefully every letter and paper, turned the Baedeker page by
page to be sure that nothing lay between them. He paused over the satin
shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment. At last
the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, he proceeded to rip
open the linen linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he
returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the
same intent scrutiny.

All this took time, and long before it was over, Stewart and his
companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the wall opposite
the table. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing
mattered very much, and he could see that the girl also was deadly
tired. But at last the search was finished and the bags closed and
strapped.

“I should like to see the small bag which Madame carries on her arm,”
said the officer, and, without a word, the girl held it out to him.

He examined its contents with a minuteness almost microscopic. Nothing
was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention.
Stewart, marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, watched
him through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would
he find some clew, some evidence of treachery?

There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet
articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse
containing some gold and silver, a postcard, two or three letters, and
some trivial odds and ends such as every woman carries about with her.
The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against
the light, he cut the cake of soap into minute fragments; he emptied
the box of powder and ran an inquiring finger through its contents;
he turned out the purse and looked at every coin it contained; then
he sat down and read slowly and gravely the postcard and each of the
letters and examined their postmarks, and finally he took one of the
closely-written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close
against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat,
examining it with minute attention as though he rather expected to make
some interesting discovery. As a finish to his researches, he ripped
open the lining of the bag and turned it inside out.

“Where did you buy this bag, madame?” he asked.

“In Paris, a month ago.”

“These handkerchiefs are also French.”

“Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world.”

He compressed his lips and looked at her.

“And that is a French hat,” he went on.

“Good heavens!” cried the girl. “One would think I was passing the
customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown--so are my
stockings--so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman
come abroad?”

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. _Your_ clothes, 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? How _could_ she 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 retie 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.



CHAPTER VIII

PRESTO! CHANGE!


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’s _that_ bodice!” 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 it _was_ a 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 nightdress 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. “And _that’s_ all 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.

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 where _did_ you 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.



CHAPTER IX

THE FRONTIER


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 wheat _au 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.

“How fortunate my hair is short!” she said, contemplating her
reflection. “Otherwise it would be a perfect tangle. I make a very nice
boy, do you not think so?”

“An adorable boy!” agreed Stewart, heartily.

She glanced up at him.

“Thank you! But are you not going to wash?”

“Not until you have finished. You are such a radiant beauty, that it
would be a sin to miss an instant of you. My clothes are even more
becoming to you than your own!”

She glanced down over her slender figure, so fine, so delicately
rounded, then sprang quickly to her feet and snatched up the coat.

“I will reconnoiter our position while you make your toilet,” she said,
and slipped out of sight among the trees.

Ten minutes later, Stewart found her seated on a little knoll at the
edge of the wood, looking out across the country.

“There is a house over yonder,” she said, nodding to where the corner
of a gable showed among the trees. “But it may be dangerous to approach
it.”

“We can’t starve,” he pointed out. “And we seem to be lucky. Suppose I
go on ahead?”

“No; we will go together,” and she sprang to her feet.

The way led over a strip of rocky ground, used evidently as a pasture,
but there were no cattle grazing on it; then along a narrow lane
between low stone walls. Presently they reached the house, which seemed
to be the home of a small farmer, for it stood at the back of a yard
with stables and sheds grouped about it. The gate was open and there
was no sign of life within. Stewart started to enter, but suddenly
stopped and looked at his companion.

“There is something wrong here,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I feel
it.”

“So do I,” said the girl, and stared about at the deserted space,
shivering slightly. Then she looked upward into the clear sky. “It was
as if a cloud had come between me and the sun,” she added.

“Perhaps it is just that everything seems so deserted,” said Stewart,
and stepped through the gate.

“No doubt the people fled when they saw the Germans,” she suggested;
“or perhaps it was just a rumor that frightened them away.”

Stewart looked about him. It was not only people that were missing from
this farmyard, he told himself; there should have been pigs in the sty,
chickens scratching in the straw, pigeons on the roof, a cat on the
door-step.

“We must have food,” he said, and went forward resolutely to the door,
which stood ajar.

There was something vaguely sinister in the position of the door,
half-open and half-closed, but after an instant’s hesitation, he
knocked loudly. A minute passed, and another, and there was no
response. Nerving himself as though for a mighty effort, he pushed the
door open and looked into the room beyond.

It was evidently the living-room and dining-room combined, and it was
in the wildest disorder. Chairs were overturned, a table was lying on
its side with one leg broken, dishes lay smashed upon the floor.

Summoning all his resolution, Stewart stepped inside. What frightful
thing had happened here? From the chairs and the dishes, it looked
as if the family had been surprised at breakfast. But where was the
family? Who had surprised them? What had----

And then his heart leaped sickeningly as his eyes fell upon a huddled
figure lying in one corner, close against the wall. It was the body of
a woman, her clothing disordered, a long, gleaming bread-knife clutched
tightly in one hand; and as Stewart bent above her, he saw that her
head had been beaten in.



CHAPTER X

FORTUNE FROWNS


ONE look at that disfigured countenance imprinted it indelibly on
Stewart’s memory--the blue eyes staring horribly upward from under the
shattered forehead, the hair matted with blood, the sprawling body,
the gleaming knife caught up in what moment of desperation! Shaking
with horror, he seized his companion’s hand and led her away out of
the desecrated house, out of the silent yard, out into the narrow lane
where they could breathe freely.

“The Uhlans have passed this way,” said the girl, staring up and down
the road.

“But,” stammered Stewart, wiping his wet forehead, “but I don’t
understand. Germany is a civilized nation--war is no longer the brutal
thing it once was.”

“War is always brutal, I fear,” said the girl, sadly; “and of course,
among a million men, there are certain to be some--like that! I am no
longer hungry. Let us press on.”

Stewart, nodding, followed along beside her, across fields, over little
streams, up and down stretches of rocky hillside, always westward. But
he saw nothing; his mind was full of other things--of the gray-clad
thousands singing as they marched; of the radiant face of the Crown
Prince; of that poor murdered woman, who had risen happily this Sunday
morning, glad of a day of rest, and looked up to see strange faces at
the door----

And this was war. A thousand other women would suffer the same fate;
thousands and thousands more would be thrown stripped and defenseless
on the world, to live or die as chance might will; a hundred thousand
children would be fatherless; a hundred thousand girls, now ripening
into womanhood, would be denied their rightful destiny of marriage and
children of their own----

Stewart shook the thought away. The picture his imagination painted was
too horrible; it could never come true--not all the emperors on earth
could make it come true!

He looked about him at the mellow landscape. Nowhere was there a sign
of life. The yellow wheat stood ripe for the harvest. The pastures
stretched lush and green--and empty. Here and there above the trees
he caught a glimpse of farmhouse chimneys, but no reassuring
smoke floated above them. A peaceful land, truly, so he told
himself--peaceful as death!

Gradually the country grew rougher and more broken, and ahead of them
they could see steep and rocky hillsides, cleft by deep valleys and
covered by a thick growth of pine.

“We must find a road,” said Stewart at last; “we can’t climb up and
down those hills. And we must find out where we are. There is a certain
risk, but we must take it. It is foolish to stumble forward blindly.”

“You are right,” his companion agreed, and when presently, far below
them at the bottom of a valley, they saw a white road winding, they
made their way down to it. Almost at once they came to a house, in
whose door stood a buxom, fair-haired woman, with a child clinging to
her skirts.

The woman watched them curiously as they approached, and her face
seemed to Stewart distinctly friendly.

“Good-morning,” he said, stopping before the door-step and lifting his
hat--an unaccustomed salutation at which the woman stared. “We seem to
have lost our way. Can you tell us----”

The woman shook her head.

“My brother and I have lost our way,” said his companion, in rapid
French. “We have been tramping the hills all morning. How far is it to
the nearest village?”

“The nearest village is Battice,” answered the woman in the same
language. “It is three kilometers from here.”

“Has it a railway station?”

“But certainly. How is it you do not know?”

“We come from the other direction.”

“From Germany?”

“Yes,” answered the girl, after an instant’s scrutiny of the woman’s
face.

“Then you are fugitives? Ah, do not fear to tell me,” she added, as the
girl hesitated. “I have no love for the Germans. I have lived near them
too long!”

There could be no doubting the sincerity of the words, nor the grimace
of disgust which accompanied them.

“Yes,” assented the girl, “we are fugitives. We are trying to get to
Liège. Have the Germans been this way?”

“No; I have seen nothing of them, but I have heard that a great army
has passed along the road through Verviers.”

“Where is your man?”

“He has joined the army, as have all the men in this neighborhood.”

“The German army?”

“Oh, no; the Belgian army. It is doing what it can to hold back the
Germans.”

The girl’s face lighted with enthusiasm.

“Oh, how splendid!” she cried. “How splendid for your brave little
country to defy the invader! Bravo, Belgium!”

The woman smiled at her enthusiasm, but shook her head doubtfully.

“I do not know,” she said, simply. “I do not understand these things.
I only know that my man has gone, and that I must harvest our grain
and cut our winter wood by myself. But will you not enter and rest
yourselves?”

“Thank you. And we are very hungry. We have money to pay for food, if
you can let us have some.”

“Certainly, certainly,” and the good wife bustled before them into the
house.

An hour later, rested, refreshed, with a supply of sandwiches in their
pockets, and armed with a rough map drawn from the directions of their
hostess, they were ready to set out westward again. She was of the
opinion that they could pass safely through Battice, which was off the
main road of the German advance, and that they might even secure there
a vehicle of some sort to take them onward. The trains, she understood,
were no longer running. Finally they thanked her for the twentieth time
and bade her good-by. She wished them Godspeed, and stood watching them
from the door until they disappeared from view.

They pushed forward briskly, and presently, huddled in the valley below
them, caught sight of the gabled roofs of the village. A bell was
ringing vigorously, and they could see the people--women and children
for the most part--gathering in toward the little church, crowned
by its gilded cross. Evidently nothing had occurred to disturb the
serenity of Battice.

Reassured, the two were about to push on down the road, when suddenly,
topping the opposite slope, they saw a squadron of horsemen, perhaps
fifty strong. They were clad in greenish-gray, and each of them bore
upright at his right elbow a long lance.

“Uhlans!” cried the girl, and the fugitives stopped short, watching
with bated breath.

The troop swung down the road toward the village at a sharp trot, and
presently Stewart could distinguish their queer, flat-topped helmets,
reminding him of the mortar-board of his university days. Right at
the edge of the village, in the shadow of some trees, the horsemen
drew rein and waited until the bell ceased ringing and the last of the
congregation had entered the church; then, at the word of command, they
touched spur to flank and swept through the empty street.

A boy saw them first and raised a shout of alarm; then a woman,
hurrying toward the church, heard the clatter of hoofs, cast one glance
behind her, and ran on, screaming wildly. The screams penetrated the
church, and in a moment the congregation came pouring out, only to find
themselves hemmed in by a semicircle of lowered lances.

The lieutenant shouted a command, and four of his men threw themselves
from the saddle and disappeared into the church. They were back in a
moment, dragging between them a white-haired priest clad in stole and
surplice, and a rosy-faced old man, who, even in this trying situation,
managed to retain his dignity.

The two were placed before the officer, and a short conference
followed, with the townspeople pressing anxiously around, listening
to every word. Suddenly there was an outburst of protest and despair,
which the priest quieted with a motion of his hand, and the conference
was resumed.

“What is it the fellow wants?” asked Stewart.

“Money and supplies, I suppose.”

“Money and supplies? But that’s robbery!”

“Oh, no; it is a part of the plan of the German General Staff. How
many times have I heard Prussian officers boast that a war would cost
Germany nothing--that her enemies would be made to bear the whole
burden! It has all been arranged--the indemnity which each village,
even the smallest, must pay--the amount of supplies which each must
furnish, the ransom which will be assessed on each individual. This
lieutenant of Uhlans is merely carrying out his instructions!”

“Who is the old man?”

“The burgomaster, doubtless. He and the priest are always the most
influential men in a village.”

The conference was waxing warmer, the lieutenant was talking in a loud
voice, and once he shook his fist menacingly; again there was a wail of
protest from the crowd--women were wringing their hands----

“He is demanding more than the village can supply,” remarked the girl.
“That is not surprising,” she added, with a bitter smile. “They will
always demand more than can be supplied. But come; we must be getting
on.”

Stewart would have liked to see the end of the drama, but he followed
his companion over the wall at the side of the road, and then around
the village and along the rough hillside. Suddenly from the houses
below arose a hideous tumult--shouts, curses, the smashing of
glass--and in a moment, a flood of people, wailing, screaming, shaking
their fists in the air, burst from the town and swept along the road in
the direction of Herve.

“They would better have given all that was demanded,” said the girl,
looking down at them. “Now they will be made to serve as an example to
other villages--they will lose everything--even their houses--see!”

Following the direction of her pointing finger, Stewart saw a black
cloud of smoke bulging up from one end of the village.

“But surely,” he gasped, “they’re not burning it! They wouldn’t dare do
that!”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t looting prohibited by the rules of war?”

“Certainly--looting and the destruction of property of non-combatants.”

“Well, then----”

But he stopped, staring helplessly. The cloud of smoke grew in volume,
and below it could be seen red tongues of flame. There before him was
the hideous reality--and he suddenly realized how futile it was to make
laws for anything so essentially lawless as war, or to expect niceties
of conduct from men thrown back into a state of barbarism.

“What do the rules of war matter to a nation which considers treaties
mere scraps of paper?” asked the girl, in a hard voice. “Their very
presence here in Belgium is a violation of the rules of war. Besides,
it is the German theory that war should be ruthless--that the enemy
must be intimidated, ravaged, despoiled in every possible way. They say
that the more merciless it is, the briefer it will be. It is possible
that they are not altogether wrong.”

“True,” muttered Stewart. “But it is a heartless theory.”

“War is a heartless thing,” commented his companion, turning away. “It
is best not to think too much about it. Come--we must be going on.”

They pushed forward again, keeping the road, with its rabble of
frenzied fugitives, at their right. It was a wild and beautiful
country, and under other circumstances, Stewart would have gazed in
admiring wonder at its rugged cliffs, its deep precipitous valleys,
its thickly-wooded hillsides; but now these appeared to him only as so
many obstacles between him and safety.

At last the valley opened out, and below them they saw the clustered
roofs of another village, which could only be Herve. Around it were
broad pastures and fields of yellow grain, and suddenly the girl caught
Stewart by the arm.

“Look!” she said, and pointed to the field lying nearest them.

A number of old men, women, and children were cutting the grain,
tying it into sheaves, and piling the sheaves into stacks, under the
supervision of four men. Those four men were clothed in greenish-gray
and carried rifles in their hands! The invaders were stripping the
grain from the fields in order to feed their army!

As he contemplated this scene, Stewart felt, mixed with his horror
and detestation, a sort of unwilling admiration. Evidently, as his
companion had said, when Germany made war, she made war. She was
ruthlessly thorough. She allowed no sentiment, no feeling of pity, no
weakening compassion, to interfere between her and her goal. She went
to war with but one purpose: to win; and she was determined to win, no
matter what the cost! Stewart shivered at the thought. Whether she won
or lost, how awful that cost must be!

The fugitives went on again at last, working their way around the
village, keeping always in the shelter of the woods along the
hillsides, and after a weary journey, came out on the other side above
the line of the railroad. A sentry, with fixed bayonet, stood guard
over a solitary engine; except for him, the road seemed quite deserted.
For half a mile they toiled along over the rough hillside above it
without seeing anyone else.

“We can’t keep this up,” said Stewart, flinging himself upon the
ground. “We shall have to take to the road if we are to make any
progress. Do you think we’d better risk it?”

“Let us watch it for a while,” the girl suggested, so they sat and
watched it and munched their sandwiches, and talked in broken snatches.
Ten minutes passed, but no one came in sight.

“It seems quite safe,” she said at last, and together they made their
way down to it.

“The next village is Fléron,” said Stewart, consulting his rough map.
“It is apparently about four miles from here. Liège is about ten miles
further. Can we make it to-night?”

“We must!” said the girl, fiercely. “Come!”

The road descended steadily along the valley of a pretty river, closed
in on either side by densely-wooded hills. Here and there among the
trees, they caught glimpses of white villas; below them, along the
river, there was an occasional cluster of houses; but they saw few
people. Either the inhabitants of this land had fled before the enemy,
or were keeping carefully indoors out of his way.

Once the fugitives had an alarm, for a hand-car, manned by a squad of
German soldiers, came spinning past; but fortunately Stewart heard it
singing along the rails in time to pull his companion into a clump of
underbrush. A little later, along the highway by the river, they saw a
patrol of Uhlans riding, and then they came to Fléron and took to the
hills to pass around it. Here, too, clouds of black smoke hung heavy
above certain of the houses, which, for some reason, had been made the
marks of German reprisals; and once, above the trees to their right,
they saw a column of smoke drifting upward, marking the destruction of
some isolated dwelling.

The sun was sinking toward the west by the time they again reached
the railroad, and they were both desperately weary; but neither had
any thought of rest. The shadows deepened rapidly among the hills,
but the darkness was welcome, for it meant added safety. By the time
they reached Bois de Breux, night had come in earnest, so they made
only a short detour, and were soon back on the railroad again, with
scarcely five miles to go. For an hour longer they plodded on through
the darkness, snatching a few minutes’ rest once or twice; too weary to
talk, or to look to right or left.

Then, as they turned a bend in the road, they drew back in alarm; for
just ahead of them, close beside the track, a bright fire was burning,
lighting up the black entrance of a tunnel, before which stood a sentry
leaning on his rifle. Five or six other soldiers, wearing flat fatigue
caps, were lolling about the fire, smoking and talking in low tones.

Stewart surveyed them curiously. They were big, good-humored-looking
fellows, fathers of families doubtless--honest men with kindly hearts.
It seemed absurd to suppose that such men as these would loot villages
and burn houses and outrage women; it seemed absurd that anyone should
fear them or hide from them. Stewart, with a feeling that all this
threat of war was a chimera, had an impulse to go forward boldly and
join them beside the fire. He was sure they would welcome him, make a
place for him----

“_Wer da?_” called, sharply, a voice behind him, and he spun around to
find himself facing a leveled rifle, behind which he could see dimly
the face of a man wearing a spiked helmet--a patrol, no doubt, who had
seen them as they stood carelessly outlined against the fire, and who
had crept upon them unheard.

“We are friends,” Stewart answered, hastily.

The soldier motioned them forward to the fire. The men there had caught
up their rifles at the sound of the challenge, and stood peering
anxiously out into the darkness. But when the two captives came within
the circle of light cast by the fire, they stacked their guns and sat
down again. Evidently they saw nothing threatening in the appearance of
either Stewart or his companion.

Their captor added his gun to the stack and motioned them to sit down.
Then he doffed his heavy helmet with evident relief and hung it on
his rifle, got out a soft cap like the others’, and finally sat down
opposite his prisoners and looked at them closely.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in German.

“We are trying to get through to Brussels,” answered Stewart, in the
best German he could muster. “I have not much German. Do you speak
English?”

“No. Are you English?” And the blue eyes glinted with an unfriendly
light which Stewart was at a loss to understand.

“We are Americans,” and Stewart saw with relief that the man’s face
softened perceptibly. On the chance that, if the soldier could not
speak English, neither could he read it, he impressively produced his
passport. “Here is our safe-conduct from our Secretary of State,” he
said. “You will see that it is sealed with the seal of the United
States. My brother and I were passed at Herbesthal, but could find no
conveyance and started to walk. We lost our way, but stumbled upon the
railroad some miles back and decided to follow it until we came to a
village. How far away is the nearest village?”

“I do not know,” said the man, curtly; but he took the passport and
stared at it curiously. Then he passed it around the circle, and it
finally came back to its owner, who placed it in his pocket.

“You find it correct?” Stewart inquired.

“I know nothing about it. You must wait until our officer arrives.”

Stewart felt a sickening sensation at his heart, but he managed to
smile.

“He will not be long, I hope,” he said. “We are very tired and hungry.”

“He will not be long,” answered the other, shortly, and got out a long
pipe, but Stewart stopped him with a gesture.

“Try one of these,” he said, quickly, and brought out his handful of
cigars and passed them around.

The men grinned their thanks, and were soon puffing away with evident
enjoyment. But to Stewart the single cigar he had kept for himself
seemed strangely savorless. He glanced at his companion. She was
sitting hunched up, her arms about her knees, staring thoughtfully at
the fire.

“This man says we must wait here until their officer arrives,” he
explained in English. “My brother does not understand German,” he added
to the men.

“How stupid!” said the girl. “I am so tired and stiff!”

“It is no use to argue with them, I suppose?”

“No. They will refuse to decide anything for themselves. They rely
wholly upon their officers.”

She rose wearily, stretched herself, stamped her foot as if it were
asleep, and then sat down again and closed her eyes. She looked very
young and fragile, and was shivering from head to foot.

“My brother is not strong,” said Stewart to the attentive group. “I
fear all this hardship and exposure will be more than he can bear.”

One of the men, with a gesture of sympathy, rose, unrolled his blanket,
and spread it on the bank behind the fire.

“Let the young man lie down there,” he said.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Stewart. “Come, Tommy,” he added, touching the
girl on the arm. “Suppose you lie down till the officer comes.”

She opened her eyes, saw the blanket, nodded sleepily, and, still
shivering, followed Stewart to it, lay down, permitted him to roll her
in it, and apparently dropped off to sleep on the instant. Stewart
returned to the circle about the fire, nodding his satisfaction. They
all smiled, as men do who have performed a kind action.

But Stewart, though doing his best to keep a placid countenance, was
far from easy in his mind. One thing was certain--they must escape
before the officer arrived. He, no doubt, would be able both to read
and speak English, and the passport would betray them at once. For
without question, a warning had been flashed from headquarters to every
patrol to arrest the holder of that passport, and to send him and his
companion, under close guard, back to Herbesthal. But how to escape!

Stewart glanced carefully about him, cursing the carelessness that had
brought them into this trap, the imbecility which had held them staring
at this outpost, instead of taking instantly to the woods, as they
should have done. They deserved to be captured! Nevertheless----

The sentry was pacing slowly back and forth at the tunnel entrance,
fifteen yards away; the other men were lolling about the fire,
half-asleep. It would be possible, doubtless, to bolt into the darkness
before they could grab their rifles, so there was only the sentry to
fear, and the danger from him would not be very great. But it would be
necessary to keep to the track for some distance, because, where it
dropped into the tunnel, its sides were precipices impossible to scale
in the darkness. The danger, then, lay in the fact that the men might
have time to snatch up their rifles and empty them along the track
before the fugitives would be able to leave it. But it was a danger
which must be faced--there was no other way. Once in the woods, they
would be safe.

Stewart, musing over the situation with eyes half-closed, recalled dim
memories of daring escapes from Indians and outlaws, described in
detail in the blood-and-thunder reading of his youth. There was always
one ruse which never failed--just as the pursuers were about to fire,
the fugitive would fling himself flat on his face, and the bullets
would fly harmlessly over him; then he would spring to his feet and go
safely on his way. Stewart smiled to remember how religiously he had
believed in that stratagem, and how he had determined to practice it,
if ever need arose! He had never contemplated the possibility of having
to flee from a squad of men armed with magazine rifles, capable of
firing twenty-five shots a minute!

Then he shook these thoughts away; there was no time to be lost. He
must warn his companion, for they must make the dash at the same
instant. He glanced toward where she lay in the shadow of the cliff,
and saw that she was turning restlessly from side to side, as though
fevered. With real anxiety, he hastened to her, knelt beside her, and
placed his hand gently on her forehead. At the touch, she opened her
eyes and stared dazedly up at him.

“Ask for some water,” she said, weakly; and then, in the same tone, “we
must flee at the moment they salute their officer.”

Stewart turned to the soldiers, who were listening with inquiring faces.

“My brother is feverish,” he explained. “He asks for a drink of water.”

One of the men was instantly on his feet, unscrewing his canteen and
holding it to the eager lips while Stewart supported his comrade’s
head. She drank eagerly and then dropped back with a sigh of
satisfaction, and closed her eyes.

“He will go to sleep now,” said Stewart. “Thank you,” and he himself
took a drink from the proffered flask.

He was surprised to find how cool and fresh the water tasted, and when
he looked at the flask more closely, he saw that it was made like a
Thermos bottle, with outer and inner shells. He handed it back to its
owner with a nod of admiration.

“That is very clever,” he said. “Everything seems to have been thought
of.”

“Yes, everything,” agreed the other. “No army is equipped like ours. I
am told that the French are in rags.”

“I don’t know,” said Stewart, cautiously, “I have never seen them.”

“And their army is not organized; we shall be in Paris before they can
mobilize. It will be 1870 over again. The war will be ended in two or
three months. It has been promised us that we shall be home again for
Christmas without fail.”

“I hope you will,” Stewart agreed; and there was a moment’s silence.
“How much longer shall we have to wait?” he asked, at last.

“Our officer should be here at any moment.”

“It is absolutely necessary that we wait for him?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“We are very hungry,” Stewart explained.

The soldier pondered for a moment, and then rose to his feet.

“I think I can give you food,” he said. “It is permitted to give food,
is it not?” he asked his comrades; and when they nodded, he opened his
knapsack and took out a package of hard, square biscuits and a thick
roll of sausage. He cut the sausage into generous slices, while Stewart
watched with watering mouth, placed a slice on each of the biscuits,
and passed them over.

“Splendid!” cried Stewart. “I don’t know how to thank you. But at least
I can pay you,” and he dove into his pocket and produced a ten-mark
piece--his last. The soldier shook his head. “It is for the whole
squad,” added Stewart, persuasively. “You will be needing tobacco some
day, and this will come in handy!”

The soldier smiled, took the little coin, and placed it carefully in
his pocket.

“You are right about the tobacco,” he said. “I thank you.”

He sat down again before the fire, while Stewart hastened to his
companion and dropped to his knees beside her.

“See what I’ve got!” he cried. “Food!”

She opened her eyes, struggled to a sitting posture, and held out an
eager hand. A moment later, they were both munching the sausage and
biscuits as though they had never tasted anything so delicious--as,
indeed, they never had!

“Oh, how good that was!” she said, when the last crumb was swallowed,
and she waved her thanks to the watching group about the fire.
“Remember,” she added, in a lower tone, as she sank back upon her
elbow, “the instant----”

She stopped, staring toward the tunnel, one hand grasping the blanket.

Stewart, following her look, saw the sentry stiffen, turn on his heel,
and hold his rifle rigidly in front of him, as a tall figure, clad in
a long gray coat and carrying an electric torch, stepped out of the
darkness of the tunnel. At the same instant, the men about the fire
sprang to their feet.

“Now!” cried the girl, and threw back the blanket.

In an instant, hand in hand, they had glided into the darkness.



CHAPTER XI

THE NIGHT ATTACK


A SAVAGE voice behind them shouted, “Halt!” and then a bullet sang
past and a rifle went off with a noise like a cannon--or so it seemed
to Stewart; then another and another. It was the sentry, of course,
pumping bullets after them. Stewart’s flesh crept at the thought that
any instant might bring a volley, which would sweep the track with a
storm of lead. If he could only look back, if he only knew----

Suddenly the girl pulled him to the right, and he saw there was a cleft
in the steep bank. Even as they sprang into it, the volley came, and
then a second and a third, and then the sound of shouting voices and
running feet.

Savagely the fugitives fought their way upward, over rocks, through
briars--scratched, torn, bleeding, panting for breath. Even in the
daytime it would have been a desperate scramble; now it soon became a
sort of horrid nightmare, which might end at any instant at the bottom
of a cliff. More than once Stewart told himself that he could not go
on, that his heart would burst if he took another step--and yet he
_did_ go on, up and up, close behind his comrade, who seemed borne on
invisible wings.

At last she stopped and pressed close against him. He could feel how
her heart was thumping.

“Wait!” she panted. “Listen!”

Not a sound broke the stillness of the wood.

“I think we are safe,” she said. “Let us rest a while.”

They sat down, side by side, on a great rock. Gradually their gasping
breath slackened and the pounding of their hearts grew quieter.

“I have lost my cap,” she said, at last. “A branch snatched it off and
I did not dare to stop.”

Stewart put his hand to his head and found that his hat also was gone.
Until that instant he had not missed it.

“I feel as if I had been flayed,” he said. “Those briars were downright
savage. It was lucky we didn’t break a leg--or stop a bullet.”

“We must not run such risks again. We must keep clear of roads--the
Germans seem to be everywhere. Let us keep on until we reach the crest
of this hill, and then we can rest till daylight.”

“All right,” agreed Stewart. “Where thou goest, I will go. But please
remember I don’t travel on angelic wings as you do, but on very human
legs! And they are very tired!”

“So are mine!” she laughed. “But we cannot remain here, can we?”

“No,” said Stewart, “I suppose not,” and he arose and followed her.

The ground grew less rough as they proceeded, and at last they came
to the end of the wood. Overhead, a full moon was sinking toward the
west--a moon which lighted every rock and crevice of the rolling meadow
before them, and which seemed to them, after the darkness of the woods
and the valleys, as brilliant as the sun.

“We must be nearly at the top,” said the girl. “These hills almost all
have meadows on their summits where the peasants pasture their flocks.”

And so it proved, for beyond the meadow was another narrow strip of
woodland, and as they came to its farther edge, the fugitives stopped
with a gasp of astonishment.

Below them stretched a broad valley, and as far as the eye could reach,
it was dotted with flaring fires.

“The German army!” said the girl, and the two stood staring.

Evidently a countless host lay camped below them, but no sound reached
them, save the occasional rumble of a train along some distant track.
The Kaiser’s legions were sleeping until the dawn should give the
signal for the advance--an advance which would be as the sweep of an
avalanche, hideous, irresistible, remorseless, crushing everything in
its path.

“Oh, look, look!” cried the girl, and caught him by the arm.

To the west, seemingly quite near, a flash of flame gleamed against the
sky, then another and another and another, and in a moment a savage
rumble as of distant thunder drifted to their ears.

“What is it?” asked Stewart, staring at the ever-increasing bursts of
flame. “Not a battle, surely!”

“It is the forts at Liège!” cried the girl, hoarsely. “The Germans are
attacking them, and they resist! Oh, brave little Belgium!”

The firing grew more furious, and then a battery of searchlights began
to play over the hillside before the nearest fort, and they could
dimly see its outline on the hilltop--strangely like a dreadnaught,
with its wireless mast and its armored turrets vomiting flame. Above
it, from time to time, a shell from the German batteries burst like a
greenish-white rocket, but it was evident that the assailants had not
yet got their guns up in any number.

Then, suddenly, amid the thunder of the cannon, there surged a
vicious undercurrent of sound which Stewart knew must be the reports
of machine-guns, or perhaps of rifles; and all along the slope below
the fort innumerable little flashes stabbed upward toward the summit.
Surely infantry would never attack such a position, Stewart told
himself; and then he held his breath, for, full in the glare of the
searchlights, he could see what seemed to be a tidal wave sweeping up
the hill.

A very fury of firing came from the fort, yet still the wave swept on.
As it neared the fort, what seemed to be another wave swept down to
meet it. The firing slackened, almost stopped, and Stewart, his blood
pounding in his temples, knew that the struggle was hand to hand,
breast to breast. It lasted but a minute; then the attacking tide
flowed back down the hill, and again the machine-guns of the fort took
up that deadly chorus.

“They have been driven back!” gasped the girl. “Thank God! the Germans
have been driven back!”

How many, Stewart wondered, were lying out there dead on the hillside?
How many homes had been rendered fatherless in those few desperate
moments? And this was but the first of a thousand such charges--the
first of a thousand such moments! There, before his eyes, men had
killed each other--for what? The men in the forts were defending
their Fatherland from invasion--they were fighting for liberty and
independence. That was understandable--it was even admirable. But
those others--the men in the spiked helmets--what were they fighting
for? To destroy liberty? To wrest independence from a proud little
people? Surely no man of honor would fight for that! No, it must be
for something else--for some ideal--for some ardent sense of duty,
strangely twisted, perhaps, but none the less fierce and urgent!

Again the big guns in the armored turrets were bellowing forth their
wrath; and then the searchlights stabbed suddenly up into the sky,
sweeping this way and that.

“They fear an airship attack!” breathed the girl, and she and Stewart
stood staring up into the night.

Shells from the German guns began again to burst about the fort, but
its own guns were silent, and it lay there crouching as if in terror.
Only its searchlights swept back and forth.

Suddenly a gun spoke--they could see the flash of its discharge,
seemingly straight up into the air; then a second and a third; and
then the searchlights caught the great bulk of a Zeppelin and held it
clearly outlined as it swept across the sky. There was a furious burst
of firing, but the ship sped on unharmed, passed beyond the range of
the searchlights, blotted out the setting moon for an instant, and was
gone.

“It did not dare pass over the fort,” said the girl. “It was flying too
low. Perhaps it will come back at a greater altitude. I have seen them
at the maneuvers in Alsace--frightful things, moving like the wind.”

This way and that the searchlights swept in great arcs across the
heavens, in frenzied search for this monster of the air; but it did not
return. Perhaps it had been damaged by the gunfire--or perhaps, Stewart
told himself with a shiver, it was speeding on toward Paris, to rain
terror from the August sky!

Gradually the firing ceased; but the more distant forts were using
their searchlights, too. Seeing them all aroused and vigilant, the
Germans did not attack again; their surprise had failed; now they must
wait for their heavy guns.

“Well,” asked Stewart, at last, “what now?”

“I think it would be well to stay here till morning--then we can see
how the army is placed and how best to get past it. It is evident we
cannot go on to-night.”

“I’m deadly tired,” said Stewart, looking about him into the darkness,
“but I should like a softer bed than the bare ground.”

“Let us go to the edge of this meadow,” the girl suggested. “Perhaps we
shall find another field of grain.”

But luck was against them. Beyond the meadow the woods began again.

“The meadow is better than the woods,” said Stewart. “At least it has
some grass on it--the woods have nothing but rocks!”

“Let us stay in the shelter of the hedge. Then, if a patrol happens
into the field before we are awake, it will not see us. Perhaps they
will attempt a pursuit in the morning. They will guess that we have
headed for the west.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger--it would be like hunting for a
needle in a haystack--in a dozen haystacks! But won’t you be cold?”

“Oh, no,” she protested, quickly; “the night is quite warm. Good-night,
my friend.”

“Good-night,” Stewart answered, and withdrew a few steps and made
himself as comfortable as he could.

There were irritating bumps in the ground which seemed to come exactly
in the wrong place; but he finally adjusted himself, and lay and looked
up at the stars, and wondered what the morrow would bring forth. He was
growing a little weary of the adventure. He was growing weary of the
restraint which the situation imposed upon him. He was aching to take
this girl in his arms and hold her close, and whisper three words--just
three!--into her rosy ear--but to do that now, to do it until they were
in safety, until she had no further need of him, would be a cowardly
thing--a cowardly thing--a cowardly----

He was awakened by a touch on the arm, and opened his eyes to find the
sun high in the heavens and his comrade looking down at him with face
almost equally radiant.

“I did not like to wake you,” she said, “but it is getting late.”

Stewart sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked at her again. Her hair
was neatly combed, her face was fresh and shining, her hands showed
some ugly scratches but were scrupulously clean. Even her clothing,
though torn here and there, had evidently been carefully brushed.

“What astounds me,” said Stewart, deliberately, “is how you do it. You
spend the first half of the night scrambling over rocks and through
briars, and the second half sleeping on the bare ground, and you emerge
in the morning as fresh and radiant as though you had just stepped from
your boudoir. I wish I knew the secret.”

“Come and I will show you,” she said, laughing gayly, and she led him
away into the wood.

Presently he heard the sound of falling water, and his guide brought
him triumphantly to a brook gurgling over mossy rocks, at whose foot
was a shallow basin.

“There is my boudoir,” she said. “The secret of beauty is in the bath.
I will reconnoiter the neighborhood while you try it for yourself.”

Stewart flung off his clothes, splashed joyously into the cold, clear
water, and had perhaps the most delicious bath of his life. There
was no soap, to be sure, but much may be done by persistent rubbing;
and there were no towels, but the warm wind of the morning made them
almost unnecessary. He got back into his clothes again with a sense of
astonishing well-being--except for a most persistent gnawing at his
stomach.

“I wonder where we shall breakfast to-day?” he mused as he laced his
shoes. “Nowhere, most probably! Oh, well, if that dear girl can stand
it, I oughtn’t to complain!”

And he fell to thinking of her, of her slim grace, of the curve of her
red lips----

“Confound it!” he said. “I can’t stand it much longer. Friendship is
all very well, and the big brother act may do for a while--but I can’t
keep it up forever, and what’s more, I won’t!”

And then he heard her calling, in the clear, high voice he had grown to
love.

“All right!” he shouted. “Come along!”

Presently she appeared between the trees, and he watched her with
beating heart--so straight, so supple, so perfect in every line.

“Did the magic work?” she inquired, gayly.

“Partly; but it takes more than water to remove a two-days’ growth of
beard,” and Stewart ran a rueful finger over his stubbly chin. “But can
it be only two days since you burst into my room at the Kölner Hof, and
threw your arms around my neck and kissed me!”

“Please do not speak of it!” she pleaded, with crimson cheeks. “It was
not an easy thing for a girl to do; but that spy was watching--so I
nerved myself, and----”

“You did it very well, indeed,” he said, reminiscently. “And to think
that not once since then----”

“Once was quite enough.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you; I know I’m not an attractive object. People
will be taking us for beauty and the beast.”

“Neither the one nor the other!” she corrected.

“Well, I take back the beast; but not the beauty! You are the loveliest
thing I ever saw,” he added, huskily. “The very loveliest!”

She looked down at him for an instant, and her eyes were very tender;
then she looked hastily away.

“There were to be no compliments until we were out of Germany,” she
reminded him.

“We are out of Germany,” he said, and got slowly to his feet, his eyes
on fire.

“No, no,” she protested, backing hastily away from him. “This is German
ground--let me show you!” and she ran before him out into the meadow.
“Look down yonder!”

Looking down, Stewart saw the mighty army which had been mustered to
crush France.

As far as the eye could reach, and from side to side of the broad
valley, it stretched--masses of men and horses and wagons and
artillery--masses and masses--thousands upon thousands--mile upon mile.
A broad highway ran along either side of the river, and along each road
a compact host moved steadily westward toward Liège.

Suddenly from the west came the thunder of heavy guns, and Stewart
knew that the attack had commenced again. Again men were being driven
forward to death, as they would be driven day after day, until the end,
whatever that might be. And whatever it was, not a single dead man
could be brought to life; not a single maimed man made whole; not a
single dollar of the treasure which was being poured out like a flood
could be recovered. It was all lost, wasted, worse than wasted, since
it was being used to destroy, not to create! Incredible--impossible--it
could not be! Even with that mighty army beneath his eyes, Stewart told
himself for the hundredth time that it could not be!

The voice of his comrade broke in upon his thoughts.

“We must work our way westward along the hills until we come to the
Meuse,” she said. “This is the valley of the Vesdre, which flows into
the Meuse, so we have only to follow it.”

“Can’t you prevail upon your fairy godmother to provide breakfast
first?” asked Stewart. “I’m sure you have only to wish for it, and the
table would appear laden with an iced melon, bacon and eggs, crisp
rolls, yellow butter, and a pot of coffee--I think I can smell the
coffee!” He closed his eyes and sniffed. “How perfect it would be to
sit right here and eat that breakfast and watch the Germans! Oh, well,”
he added, as she turned away, “if not here, then somewhere else. Wait!
Isn’t that a house over yonder?”

It was indeed a tiny house whose gable just showed among the trees,
and they made their way cautiously toward it. It stood at the side of
a small garden, with two or three outbuildings about it, and it was
shielded on one side by an orchard. No smoke rose from the chimney, nor
was there any sign of life.

And then Stewart, who had been crouching behind the hedge beside his
companion, looking at all this, rose suddenly to his feet and started
forward.

“Come on,” he cried; “the Germans haven’t been this way--there’s
a chicken,” and he pointed to where a plump hen was scratching
industriously under the hedge.

“Here is another sign,” said the girl, as they crossed the garden, and
pointed to the ground. “The potatoes and turnips have not been dug.”

“It must be here we’re going to have that breakfast!” cried Stewart,
and knocked triumphantly at the door.

There was no response and he knocked again. Then he tried the door, but
it was locked. There was another door at the rear of the house, but
it also was locked. There were also three windows, but they were all
tightly closed with wooden shutters.

“We’ve got to have something to eat, that’s certain,” said Stewart,
doggedly. “We shall have to break in,” and he looked about for a weapon
with which to attack the door.

“No, no,” protested the girl, quickly. “That would be too like the
Uhlans! Let us see if there is not some other way!”

“What other way can there be?”

“Perhaps there is none,” she answered; “and if there is not, we will go
on our way, and leave this house undamaged. You too seem to have been
poisoned by this virus of war!”

“I only know I’m starving!” said Stewart. “If I’ve been poisoned by
anything, it’s by the virus of appetite!”

“If you were in your own country, and found yourself hungry, would
you break into the first house you came to in order to get food?” she
demanded. “Certainly not--you would do without food before you would do
that. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” said Stewart, in a low tone. “That is so. You are right.”

“Perhaps I can find something,” she said, more gently. “At least I
will try. Remain here for a moment,” and she hurried away toward the
outbuildings.

Stewart stared out into the road and reflected how easy--how inevitable
almost--it was to become a robber among thieves, a murderer among
cut-throats. And he understood how it happens that in war even the
kindliest man may become blood-thirsty, even the most honest a looter
of defenseless homes.

“See what I have found!” cried a voice, and he turned to see the girl
running toward him with hands outstretched. In each hand she held three
eggs.

“Very well for a beginning,” he commented. “Now for the melon, the
bacon, the rolls, the butter, and the coffee!”

“I fear that those must wait,” she said. “Here is your breakfast,” and
she handed him three of the eggs.

Stewart looked at them rather blankly.

“Thanks!” he said. “But I don’t quite see----”

“Then watch!”

Sitting down on the door-step, she cracked one of her eggs gently,
picked away the loosened bit of shell at its end, and put the egg to
her lips.

“Oh!” he said. “So _that’s_ it!” and sitting down beside her, he
followed her example.

He had heard of sucking eggs, but he had never before tried it, and he
found it rather difficult and not particularly pleasant. But the first
egg undoubtedly did assuage the pangs of hunger; the second assuaged
them still more, and the third quite extinguished them. In fact, he
felt a little surfeited.

“Now,” she said, “for the dessert.”

“Dessert!” protested Stewart. “Is there dessert? Why didn’t you tell
me? I never heard of dessert for breakfast, and I’m afraid I haven’t
room for it!”

“It will keep!” she assured him, and leading him around the larger
of the outbuildings, she showed him a tree hanging thick with ruddy
apples. “There are our supplies for the campaign!” she announced.

“My compliments!” he said. “You would make a great general.”

They ate one or two apples and then filled their pockets. From one of
hers, the girl drew a pipe and pouch of tobacco.

“Would you not like to smoke?” she asked. “I have been told that a pipe
is a great comfort in times of stress!”

And Stewart, calling down blessings upon her head, filled up. Never had
tobacco tasted so good, never had that old pipe seemed so sweet, as
when he blew out the first puff upon the morning air.

“Salvation Yeo was right,” he said. “As a hungry man’s food, a sad
man’s cordial, a chilly man’s fire, there’s nothing like it under the
canopy of heaven! I only wish you could enjoy it too!”

“I can enjoy your enjoyment!” she laughed as they set happily off
together.

At the corner of the wood, Stewart turned for a last look at the house.

“How glad I am I didn’t break in!” he said.



CHAPTER XII

AN ARMY IN ACTION


THE sound of cannonading grew fiercer and fiercer, as they advanced,
and the undertone of rifle fire more perceptible. It was evident that
the Germans were rapidly getting more and more guns into action, and
that the infantry attack was also being hotly pressed. Below them
in the valley, they caught glimpses from time to time, as the trees
opened out a little, of the gray-clad host marching steadily forward,
as though to overwhelm the forts by sheer weight of numbers; and then,
as they came out above a rocky bluff, they saw a new sight--an earnest
that the Belgians were fighting to some purpose.

In a level field beside the road a long tent had been pitched, and
above it floated the flag of the Red Cross. Toward it, along the road,
came slowly a seemingly endless line of motor ambulances. Each of them
in turn stopped opposite the tent, and white-clad assistants lifted
out the stretchers, each with its huddled occupant, and carried them
quickly, yet very carefully, inside the tent. In a moment the bearers
were back again, pushed the empty stretchers into place, and the
ambulance turned and sped swiftly back toward the battlefield. Here,
too, it was evident that there was admirable and smoothly-working
system--a system which alleviated, so far as it was possible to do so,
the horror and the suffering of battle.

Stewart could close his eyes and see what was going on inside that
tent. He could see the stripping away of the clothing, the hasty
examination, the sterilization of the wound, and then, if an operation
was necessary, the quick preparation, the application of the ether-cone
and the swift, unerring flash of the surgeon’s knife.

“That’s where I should be,” he said, half to himself, “I might be of
some use there!” And then he turned his eyes eastward along the road.
“Great heavens! Look at that gun.”

Along the road below them came a monstrous cannon, mounted on a low,
broad-wheeled truck, and drawn by a mighty tractor. It was of a girth
so huge, of a weight evidently so tremendous, that it seemed impossible
it could be handled at all, and yet it rolled along as smoothly as
though it were the merest toy. Above it stretched the heavy crane
which would swing it into the air and place it gently on the trunnions
of its carriage. Drawn by another tractor, the carriage itself came
close behind--more huge, more impressive if possible, than the gun
itself. Its tremendous wheels were encircled with heavy blocks of
steel, linked together and undulating along the road for all the
world like a monster caterpillar; its massive trail seemed forged to
withstand the shock of an earthquake.

“So that is the surprise!” murmured the girl beneath her breath.

And she was right. This was the surprise which had been kept so
carefully concealed--the Krupp contribution to the war--the largest
field howitzer ever built, hurling a missile so powerful that neither
steel nor stone nor armored concrete could stand against it.

In awed silence, the two fugitives watched this mighty engine of
destruction pass along the road to its appointed task. Behind it came
a motor truck carrying its crew, and then a long train of ammunition
carts filled with what looked like wicker baskets--but within each of
those baskets lay a shell weighing a thousand pounds! And as it passed,
the troops, opening to right and left, cheered it wildly, for to them
it meant more than victory--it meant that they would, perhaps, be
spared the desperate charge with its almost certain death.

Scarcely had the first gone by, when a second gun came rolling along
the road, followed by its crew and its ammunition-train; and then a
third appeared, seemingly more formidable than either of the others.

“These Germans are certainly a wonderful people,” said Stewart,
following the three monsters with his eyes as they dwindled away
westward along the road. “They may be vain and arrogant and
self-confident; apparently they haven’t much regard for the rights of
others. But they are thorough. We must give them credit for that! They
are prepared for everything.”

“Yes,” agreed his companion; “for everything except one thing.”

“And that?”

“The spirit of a people who love liberty. Neither cannon nor armies can
conquer that! The German Staff believed that Belgium would stand aside
in fear.”

“Surely you don’t expect Belgium to win?”

“Oh, no! But every day she holds the German army here is a battle won
for France. Oh, France will honor Belgium now! See--the army has been
stopped. It is no longer advancing!”

What was happening to the westward they could not see, or even guess,
but it was true that the helmeted host had ceased its march, had broken
ranks, and was stacking arms and throwing off its accouterments in the
fields along the road. The halt was to be for some time, it seemed, for
everywhere camp-kitchens were being hauled into place, fires started,
food unloaded.

“Come on! come on!” urged the girl. “We must reach the Meuse before
this tide rolls across it.”

They pressed forward again along the wooded hillside. Twice they had
to cross deep valleys which ran back into the mountain, and once they
had a narrow escape from a cavalry patrol which came cantering past so
close upon their heels that they had barely time to throw themselves
into the underbrush. They could see, too, that even in the hills
caution was necessary, for raiding parties had evidently struck up into
them, as was proved by an occasional column of smoke rising from a
burning house. Once they came upon an old peasant with a face wrinkled
like a withered apple, sitting staring down at the German host, so
preoccupied that he did not even raise his eyes as they passed. And at
last they came out above the broad plain where the Vesdre flows into
the Meuse.

Liège, with its towers and terraced streets, was concealed from them by
a bend in the river and by a bold bluff which thrust out toward it from
the east--a bluff crowned by a turreted fortress--perhaps the same they
had seen the night before--which was vomiting flame and iron down into
the valley.

The trees and bushes which clothed its sides concealed the infantry
which was doubtless lying there, but in the valley just below them
they could see a battery of heavy guns thundering against the Belgian
fort. So rapidly were they served that the roar of their discharge was
almost continuous, while high above it rose the scream of the shells
as they hurtled toward their mark. There was something fascinating in
the precise, calculated movement of the gunners--one crouching on the
trail, one seated on either side of the breech, four others passing up
the shells from the caisson close at hand. Their officer was watching
the effect of the fire through a field-glass, and speaking a word of
direction now and then.

Their fire was evidently taking effect, for it was this battery which
the gunners in the fort were trying to silence--trying blindly, for
the German guns were masked by a high hedge and a strip of orchard,
and only a tenuous, quickly-vanishing wisp of white smoke marked the
discharge. So the Belgian gunners dropped their shells hither and yon,
hoping that chance might send one of them home.

They did not find the battery, but they found other marks--a beautiful
white villa, on the first slope of the hillside, was torn asunder like
a house of cards and a moment later was in flames; a squad of cavalry,
riding gayly back from a reconnoissance down the river, was violently
scattered; a peasant family, father and mother and three children,
hastening along the road to a place of safety, was instantly blotted
out.

It was evident now that the Meuse was the barrier which had stopped the
army. Far up toward Liège were the ruins of a bridge, and no doubt all
the others had been blown up by the Belgians.

Down by the river bank a large force of engineers were working like mad
to throw a pontoon across the swift current. The material had already
been brought up--heavy, flat-bottomed boats, carried on wagons drawn
by motor-tractors, great beams and planks, boxes of bolts--everything,
in a word, needed to build this bridge just here at a point which had
no doubt been selected long in advance! The bridge shot out into the
river with a speed which seemed to Stewart almost miraculous. Boat
after boat was towed into place and anchored firmly; great beams were
bolted into position, each of them fitting exactly; and then the heavy
planks were laid with the precision and rapidity of a machine. Indeed,
Stewart told himself, it was really a machine that he was watching--a
machine of flesh and blood, wonderfully trained for just such feats as
this.

“Look! look!” cried the girl, and Stewart, following her pointing
finger, saw an aëroplane sweeping toward them from the direction of the
city. Evidently the defenders of the fort, weary of firing blindly at a
battery they could not see, were sending a scout to uncover it.

The aëroplane flew very high at first--so high that the two men in it
appeared the merest specks, but almost at once two high-angle guns were
banging away at it, though the shells fell far short. Gradually it
circled lower and lower, as if quite unconscious of the marksmen in the
valley, and as it swept past the hill, Stewart glimpsed the men quite
plainly--one with his hands upon the levers, the other, with a pair of
glasses to his eyes, eagerly scanning the ground beneath.

And then Stewart, happening to glance toward the horizon, was held
enthralled by a new spectacle. High over the hills to the east flew
a mammoth shape, straight toward the fort. Its defenders saw their
danger instantly, and hastily elevating some of their guns, greeted
the Zeppelin with a salvo. But it came straight on with incredible
speed, and as it passed above the fort, a terrific explosion shook the
mountain to its base. Stewart, staring with bated breath, told himself
that that was the end, that not one stone of that great fortress
remained upon another; but an instant later, another volley sent after
the fleeing airship told that the fort still stood--that the bomb had
missed its mark.

The aëroplane scouts, their vision shadowed by the broad wings of their
machine, had not seen the Zeppelin until the explosion brought them
sharp round toward it. Then, with a sudden upward swoop, they leaped
forward in pursuit. But nothing could overtake that monster,--it was
speeding too fast, it was already far away, and in a moment disappeared
over the hills to the west. So, after a moment’s breathless flight, the
biplane turned, circled slowly above the fort, and dropped down toward
the town behind it.

Five minutes later, a high-powered shell burst squarely in the midst of
the German battery, disabling two of the guns. At once the horses were
driven up and the remaining guns whirled away to a new emplacement,
while a passing motor ambulance was stopped to pick up the wounded.

Stewart, who had been watching all this with something of the feelings
of a spectator at some tremendous panorama, was suddenly conscious
of a mighty stream of men approaching the river from the head of the
valley. A regiment of cavalry rode in front, their long lances giving
them an appearance indescribably picturesque; behind them came column
after column of infantry, moving like clock-work, their gray uniforms
blending so perfectly with the background that it was difficult to tell
where the columns began or where they ended. Their passage reminded
Stewart of the quiver of heat above a sultry landscape--a vibration of
the air scarcely perceptible.

All the columns were converging on the river, and looking toward it,
Stewart saw that the bridge was almost done. As the last planks were
laid, a squadron of Uhlans, which had been held in readiness, dashed
across, and deploying fanshape, advanced to reconnoiter the country on
the other side.

“That looks like invasion in earnest!” said Stewart.

The girl nodded without replying, her eyes on the advancing columns.
The cavalry was the first to reach the bridge, and filed rapidly across
to reënforce their comrades; then the infantry pressed forward in solid
column. Stewart could see how the boats settled deep in the water under
the tremendous weight.

High above all other sounds, came the hideous shriek of a great shell,
which flew over the bridge and exploded in the water a hundred yards
below it. A minute later, there came another shriek, but this time the
shell fell slightly short. But the third shell--the third shell!

Surely, Stewart told himself, the bridge will be cleared; that
close-packed column will not be exposed to a risk so awful. But
it pressed on, without a pause, without a break. What must be the
soldiers’ thoughts, as they waited for the third shell!

Again that high, hideous, blood-curdling shriek split through the air,
and the next instant a shell exploded squarely in the middle of the
bridge. Stewart had a moment’s vision of a tangle of shattered bodies,
then he saw that the bridge was gone and the river filled with drowning
men, weighed down by their heavy accouterments. He could hear their
shrill cries of terror as they struggled in the current; then the cries
ceased as the river swept most of them away. Only a very few managed to
reach the bank.

Stewart hid his face in his trembling hands. It was too hideous! It
could not be! He could not bear it--the world would not bear it, if it
knew!

A sharp cry from his companion told him that the awful drama was not
yet played to an end. She was pointing beyond the river, where the
cavalry and the small body of infantry which had got across seemed
thrown into sudden confusion. Horses reared and fell, men dropped from
their saddles. The infantry threw themselves forward upon their faces;
and then to Stewart’s ears came the sharp rattle of musketry.

“The Belgians are attacking them!” cried the girl. “They are driving
them back!”

But that cavalry, so superbly trained, that infantry, so expertly
officered, were not to be driven back without a struggle. The Uhlans
formed into line and swept forward, with lances couched, over the
ridge beyond the river and out of sight, in a furious charge. But the
Belgians must have stood firm, for at the end of a few moments, the
troopers straggled back again, sadly diminished in numbers, and rode
rapidly away down the river, leaving the infantry to its fate.

Meanwhile, on the eastern bank of the river, a battery of quick-firers
had already been swung into position, and was singing its deadly tune
to hold the Belgians back. Already the men of that little company on
the farther side had found a sort of refuge behind a line of hummocks.
Already some heavier guns were being hurried into position to defend
the bridge which the engineers began at once to rebuild farther down
the stream, where it would be better masked from the fort’s attack.

Evidently the Belgians did not intend to enter that deadly zone of
fire, and the fight settled down to a dogged, long-distance one.

“We cannot get across here,” said the girl at last. “We shall have to
work our way downstream until we are past the Germans. If we can join
the Belgians, we are safe.”

But to get past the Germans proved a far greater task than they had
anticipated. There seemed to be no end to the gray-clad legions.
Brigade after brigade packed the stretch of level ground along the
river, while the road was crowded with an astounding tangle of
transport wagons, cook wagons, armored motors, artillery, tractors,
ambulances, and automobiles of every sort, evidently seized by the
army in its advance.

As he looked at them, Stewart could not but wonder how on earth they
had ever been assembled here, and, still more, how they were ever
going to be got away again. Also, he thought, how easily might they
be cut to pieces by a few batteries of machine-guns posted on that
ridge across the river! Looking across, he saw that the army chiefs
had foreseen that danger and guarded against it, for a strong body of
cavalry had been thrown across the river to screen the advance, while
along the bank, behind hasty but well-built intrenchments, long lines
of artillery had been massed to repel any attack from that direction.

But no attack came. The little Belgian army evidently had its hands
full elsewhere, and was very busy indeed, as the roar of firing both
up and down the river testified. And then, as the fugitives walked on
along the hillside, they saw that one avenue of advance would soon
be open, for a company of engineers, heavily guarded by cavalry and
quick-firers, was repairing a bridge whose central span had been blown
up by the Belgians as they retreated.

The bridge had connected two little villages, that on the east bank
dominated by a beautiful white château placed at the edge of a cliff.
Of the villages little remained but smoking ruins, and a flag above
the château showed that it had been converted into a staff headquarters.

Where was the owner of the château, Stewart wondered, looking up at it.
Where were the women who had sat and gossiped on its terrace? Where
were all the people who had lived in those two villages? Wandering
somewhere to the westward, homeless and destitute, every one of
them--haggard women and hungry children and tottering old men, whose
quiet world had turned suddenly to chaos.

“Well,” he said, at last, “it looks as if we shall have to wait until
these fellows clear out. We can’t get across the river as long as there
is a line like that before it.”

“Perhaps when they begin to advance, they will leave a break in the
line somewhere,” his companion suggested. “Or perhaps we can slip
across in the darkness. Let us wait and see.”

So they sat down behind the screen of a clump of bushes, and munched
their apples, while they watched the scene below. Stewart even ventured
to light his pipe again.

A flotilla of boats of every shape and size, commandeered, no doubt,
all up and down the river, plied busily back and forth, augmenting the
troops on the other side as rapidly as possible; and again Stewart
marveled at the absolute order and system preserved in this operation,
which might so easily have become confused. There was no crowding, no
overloading, no hurrying, but everywhere a calm and efficient celerity.
A certain number of men entered each of the boats,--leading their
horses by the bridle, if they were cavalry,--and the boats pushed off.
Reluctant horses were touched with a whip, but most of them stepped
down into the water quietly and without hesitation, showing that they
had been drilled no less than their masters, and swam strongly along
beside the boat. On the other shore, the disembarkation was conducted
in the same unhurried fashion, and the boat swung back into the stream
again for another load.

But a great army cannot be conveyed across a river in small boats, and
it was not until mid-afternoon, when the repairs on the bridge were
finished, that the real forward movement began. From that moment it
swept forward like a flood--first the remainder of the cavalry, then
the long batteries of quick-firers, then regiment after regiment of
infantry, each regiment accompanied by its transport. Looking down at
the tangle of wagons and guns and motors, Stewart saw that it was not
really a tangle, but an ordered arrangement, which unrolled itself
smoothly and without friction.

The advance was slow, but it was unceasing, and by nightfall at least
fifteen thousand men had crossed the river. Still the host encamped
along it seemed as great as ever. As one detachment crossed, another
came up from somewhere in the rear to take its place. Stewart’s brain
reeled as he gazed down at them and tried to estimate their number;
and this was only one small corner of the Kaiser’s army. For leagues
and leagues to north and south it was pressing forward; no doubt along
the whole frontier similar hosts were massed for the invasion. It was
gigantic, incredible--that word was in his thoughts more frequently
than any other. He could not believe his own eyes; his brain refused to
credit the evidence of his senses.

Each unit of this great array, each company, each squad, seemed to
live its own life and to be sufficient unto itself. Stewart could
see the company cooks preparing the evening meal; the heavy, wheeled
camp-stoves were fired up, great kettles of soup were set bubbling,
broad loaves of dark bread were cut into thick slices; and finally, at
a bugle call, the men fell into line, white-enameled cups in hand, and
received their rations. It seemed to Stewart that he could smell the
appetizing odor of that thick soup--an odor of onions and potatoes and
turnips.

“Doesn’t it make you ravenous?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you like to have
some real solid food to set your teeth into? Raw eggs and apples--ugh!”

“Yes, it does,” said the girl, who had been contemplating the scene
with dreamy eyes, scarcely speaking all the afternoon. “The French
still wear the uniform of 1870,” she added, half to herself; “a long
bulky blue coat and red trousers.”

“Visible a mile away--while these fellows melt into the ground at a
hundred yards! If Germany wins, it will be through forethought!”

“But she cannot win!” protested the girl, fiercely. “She must not win!”

“Well, all I can say is that France has a big job ahead!”

“France will not stand alone! Already she has Russia as an ally;
Belgium is doing what it can; Servia has a well-tried army. Nor are
those all! England will soon find that she cannot afford to stand
aside, and if there is need, other nations will come in--Portugal,
Rumania, even Italy!”

Stewart shook his head, skeptically.

“I don’t know,” he said, slowly. “I know nothing about world-politics,
but I don’t believe any nation will come in that doesn’t have to!”

“That is it--all of them will find that they have to, for Prussian
triumph means slavery for all Europe--for the Germans most of all. It
is for them as much as for herself that France is fighting--for human
rights everywhere--for the poor people who till the fields, and toil in
the factories, and sweat in the mines! And civilization must fight with
her against this barbarian state ruled by the upturned mustache and
mailed fist, believing that might makes right and that she can do no
wrong! That is why you and I are fighting on France’s side!”

“If nobody fights any harder than I----”

She stopped him with a hand upon his arm.

“Ah, but you are fighting well! One can fight in other ways than with a
rifle--one can fight with one’s brains.”

“It is your brains, not mine, which have done the fighting in this
campaign,” Stewart pointed out.

“Where should I have been but for you? Dead, most probably, my message
lost, my life-work shattered!”

He placed his hand quietly over hers and held it fast.

“Let us be clear, then,” he said. “It is not for freedom, or for any
abstract ideal I am fighting. It is for you--for your friendship, for
your----”

“No, it is for France,” she broke in. “I am not worth fighting
for--I am but one girl among many millions. And if we win--if we get
through----”

She paused, gazing out through the gathering darkness with starry eyes.

“Yes--if we get through,” he prompted.

“It will mean more to France than many regiments!” and she struck the
pocket which contained the letters. “Ah, we must get through--we must
not fail!”

She rose suddenly and stretched her arms high above her head.

“Dear God, you will not let us fail!” she cried. Then she turned and
held out a hand to him. “Come,” she said, quietly; “if we are to get
across, it must be before the moon rises.”



CHAPTER XIII

THE PASSAGE OF THE MEUSE


THE mist of early evening had settled over the river and wiped away
every vestige of the army, save the flaring lights of the camp-kitchens
and the white lamps of the motors; but the creaking of wheels, the
pounding of engines, and the regular tramp of countless feet told that
the advance had not slackened for an instant.

On the uplands there was still a little light, and Stewart and his
companion picked their way cautiously down through a belt of woodland,
across a rough field, and over a wall, beyond which they found an
uneven path, made evidently by a vanished herd as it went back and
forth to its pasture. They advanced slowly and silently, every sense on
the alert, but seemingly no pickets had been posted on this side, from
which there was no reason to fear an attack, and they were soon down
amid the mist, at the edge of the encampment.

Here, however, there were sentries--a close line of them; the fugitives
could see them dimly outlined against the fires, and could hear their
occasional interchange of challenges.

“It is impossible to get through here,” whispered the girl. “Let us go
on until we are below the bridge. Perhaps we shall find a gap there.”

So, hand in hand lest they become separated in the darkness, they
worked their way cautiously downstream, just out of sight of the line
of sentries.

“Wait!” whispered Stewart, suddenly. “What is that ahead?”

Something tall and black and vaguely menacing loomed above them into
the night.

“The church tower!” breathed the girl, after a moment. “See--there are
ruins all about it--it is the village they burned.”

They hesitated. Should they enter it, or try to go around? There was
something sinister and threatening about these roofless, blackened
walls which had once been homes; but to go around meant climbing
cliffs, meant breathless scrambling--above all, meant loss of time.

“We must risk it,” said the girl, at last. “We can come back if the
place is guarded.”

Their hands instinctively tightened their clasp as they stole forward
into the shadow of the houses, along what had once been a street, but
was now littered and blocked with fallen walls and débris of every
kind, some of it still smouldering. Everywhere there was the stench of
half-burned wood, and another stench, more penetrating, more nauseating.

Stewart was staring uneasily about him, telling himself that that
stench could not possibly be what it seemed, when his companion’s hand
squeezed his and dragged him quickly aside against a wall.

“Down, down!” she breathed, and they cowered together behind a mass of
fallen masonry.

Then Stewart peered out, cautiously. Yes, there was someone coming.
Far down the street ahead of them a tiny light flashed, disappeared,
flashed again, and disappeared.

Crowding close together, they buried themselves deeper in the ruins and
waited.

At last they could hear steps--slow, cautious steps, full of fear--and
the light appeared again, dancing from side to side. It seemed to be a
small lantern, carefully shaded, so that only a narrow beam of light
escaped; and that beam was sent dancing from side to side along the
street, in dark corners, under fallen doorways.

Suddenly it stopped, and Stewart’s heart leaped sickeningly as he saw
that the beam rested on a face--a white face, staring up with sightless
eyes.

The light approached, hung above it--a living hand caught up the dead
one, on which there was the gleam of gold, a knife flashed----

And then, from the darkness almost beside them, four darts of flame
stabbed toward the kneeling figure, and the ruins rocked with a great
explosion.

When Stewart opened his eyes again, he saw a squad of soldiers, each
armed with an electric torch, standing about the body of the robber
of the dead, while their sergeant emptied his pockets. There were
rings--one still encircling a severed finger--money, a watch, trinkets
of every sort, some of them quite worthless.

The man was in uniform, and the sergeant, ripping open coat and shirt,
drew out the little identifying tag of metal which hung about his
neck, broke it from its string, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he
gathered the booty into his handkerchief, tied the ends together with a
satisfied grunt, and gave a gruff command. The lights vanished and the
squad stumbled ahead into the darkness.

There was a moment’s silence. Stewart’s nerves were quivering so that
he could scarcely control them--he could feel his mouth twitching, and
put his hand up to stop it.

“We can’t go on,” he muttered. “We must go back. This is too
horrible--it is unbearable!”

Together they stole tremblingly out of the ruin, along the littered
street, past the church tower, across the road, over the wall, back
into the clean fields. There they flung themselves down gaspingly, side
by side.

How sweet the smell of the warm earth, after the stench of the looted
town! How calm and lovely the stars.

Stewart, staring up at them, felt a great serenity descend upon him.
After all, what did it matter to the universe--this trivial disturbance
upon this tiny planet? Men might kill each other, nations disappear;
but the stars would swing on in their courses, the constellations go
their predestined ways. Of what significance was man in the great
scheme of things? How absurd the pomp of kings and kaisers, how
grotesque their assumption of greatness!

A stifled sob startled him. He groped quickly for his comrade, and
found her lying prone, her face buried in her arms. He drew her close
and held her as he might have held a child. After all, she was scarcely
more than that--a child, delicate and sensitive. As a child might, she
pillowed her head upon his breast and lay there sobbing softly.

But the sobs ceased presently; he could feel how she struggled for
self-control; and at last she turned in his arms and lay staring up at
the heavens.

“That’s right,” he said. “Look up at the stars! That helps!” and it
seemed to him, in spite of the tramp of feet and the rattle of wheels
and curses of savage drivers, that they were alone together in the
midst of things, and that nothing else mattered.

“How sublime they are!” she whispered. “How they calm and strengthen
one! They seem to understand!” She turned her face and looked at
him. “You too have understood!” she said, very softly; then gently
disengaged his arms and sat erect.

“Do you know,” said Stewart, slowly, “what we saw back there has
revived my faith in human nature--and it needed reviving! Those men
must have seen that that scoundrel was a soldier like themselves, yet
they didn’t hesitate to shoot. Justice still lives, then; a sense of
decency can survive, even in an army. I had begun to doubt it, and I am
glad to know that I was wrong.”

“The tenderest, noblest gentleman I ever knew,” she answered, softly,
“was a soldier.”

“Yes,” Stewart agreed; “I have known one or two like that.”

War was not wholly bad, then. Its fierce flame blasted, blackened,
tortured--but it also refined. It had its brutal lusts--but it had also
its high heroisms!

The girl at his side stirred suddenly.

“We must be going,” she said.

“You’re sure you are all right again?”

“Yes,” and she rose quickly. “We must go back the way we came.”

They set out again along the edge of the army, stumbling across rough
fields, crouching behind hedges, turning aside to avoid a lighted house
where some officers were making merry. For perhaps a mile they pressed
on, with a line of sentries always at their right, outlined against the
gleam of scattered lights. Then, quite suddenly, there were no more
lights, and they knew that they had reached the limit of the encampment.

Had they also reached the limit of the line of sentries? There was no
way to make sure; but they crept forward to the wall along the highway
and peered cautiously over. The road seemed empty. They crossed it as
swiftly and silently as shadows, and in a moment were safe behind the
wall on the other side.

Beyond it lay the yard of an iron foundry, with great piles of
castings scattered about and a tall building looming at their left. In
front of it they caught the gleam of a sentry’s rifle, so they bore
away to the right until they reached the line of the railway running
close along the river bank. There were sentries here, too, but they
were stationed far apart and were apparently half-asleep, and the
fugitives had no difficulty in slipping between them. A moment later,
they had scrambled down a steep bank and stood at the edge of the river.

“And now,” whispered Stewart, “to get over.”

He looked out across the water, flowing strong and deep, mysterious and
impressive in the darkness, powerful, unhurried, alert--as if grimly
conscious of its task, and rejoicing in it; for this stream which was
holding the Germans back had its origin away southward in the heart of
France. He could not see the other bank, but he knew that it was at
least two hundred yards away.

“If we could find a boat!” he added. “We saw plenty of them this
afternoon.”

“We dare not use a boat,” the girl objected. “We should be seen and
fired upon.”

“Do you mean to swim?” Stewart demanded.

“Be more careful!” she cautioned. “Someone may hear us,” and she drew
him down into the shadow of the bank. “Unfortunately, I cannot swim,
but no doubt you can.”

“I’m not what would be called an expert, but I think I could swim
across this river. However, I absolutely refuse to try to take you
over. It would be too great a risk.”

“If we had a plank or log, I could hold to it while you pushed it
along. If you grew tired, you could rest and drift for a time.”

Stewart considered the plan. It seemed feasible. A drifting plank would
attract no attention from the shore--the river was full of débris from
the operations around Liège--and, whether they got across or not, there
would be no danger of either of them drowning. And they ought to get
over, for it would be no great task to work a plank across the stream.

“Yes, I think I could do that,” he said at last. “Let us see if we can
find a plank.”

There was nothing of the sort along the shore, though they searched it
for some distance; but opposite the foundry they came upon a pile of
the square wooden sand-boxes in which castings are made. Stewart, when
he saw them, chuckled with satisfaction.

“Just the thing!” he said. “Providence is certainly on our side
to-night!”

“I hope so!” breathed the girl, and between them they carried one of
the boxes down to the edge of the water.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Stewart sat down and began to take
off his shoes.

“We shall have to get rid of our clothing,” he said, in the most
matter-of-fact tone he could muster. “There is nothing heavier than
clothes when they get water-soaked. Besides, we’ve got to keep them dry
if we can. If we don’t, we shall nearly freeze to death after we leave
the water--and they’ll betray us a mile off!”

The girl stood for a moment staring out across the river. Then she sat
down with her back to him.

“You are quite right,” she agreed, quietly, and bent above her shoes.

“We’ll turn the box upside down and put our clothes upon it,” went on
Stewart, cheerfully. “They will keep dry there. The water isn’t very
cold, probably, but we shall be mighty glad to have some dry things to
get into once we are out of it.”

She did not reply, and Stewart went rapidly on with his undressing.
When that was finished, he rolled his trousers, shoes and underclothing
into a compact bundle inside his coat, and tied the sleeves together.

“Now I’m going to launch the raft,” he said. “Roll your clothes up
inside your coat, so that nothing white will show, and wade out to me
as soon as you are ready.”

“Very well,” she answered, in a low tone.

With his bundle under one arm, Stewart turned the box over and dragged
it into the water. He had been shivering in the night air, but the
water was agreeably warm. Placing his bundle upon the top of the box,
he pushed it before him out into the stream, and was soon breast-deep.
Then, holding the box against the current, he waited.

Minute after minute passed, but she did not come. He could not see the
shore, but he strained his eyes toward it, wondering if he should go
back, if anything had happened. So quiet and unquestioning had been
her acceptance of his plan that he did not suspect the struggle waging
there on the bank between girlish modesty and grim necessity.

But, at last, from the mist along the shore, a white figure emerged,
dim and ghostlike in the darkness, and he heard a gentle splashing
as she came toward him through the water. He raised his arm, to make
certain that she saw him, then turned his head away.

Near and nearer came the splashing; then the box rocked gently as she
placed her clothing on it.

“All right?” he asked, softly.

“Yes,” she answered.

He turned to find her looking up at him from the level of the stream,
which came just beneath her chin. The light of the stars reflected
on the water crowned her with a misty halo, and again he read in her
face that sweet and tremulous appeal for respect and understanding
which had so moved him once before. It moved him far more deeply now;
but he managed to bite back the words which leaped to his lips and to
speak almost casually--as though situations such as this were the most
ordinary in the world.

“Have you got a firm grip of the handle?”

“Yes.”

He assured himself that both bundles of clothing were secure.

“All ready, then,” he said. “Just hold on and let your body float out
in the water. Don’t hold your head too high, and if you feel your hands
slipping call me at once. I don’t want to lose you, little comrade!”

“I will remember,” she promised, smiling gratefully up at him.

“Then here we go,” and he pushed the box slowly out into the stream.

In a moment the water was at his chin.

“All right?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

He took another step forward, the current caught him and lifted him
off his feet, and he began to swim easily and slowly. He was not sure
of his strength, it was a long time since he had done any serious
swimming, and he knew that he must husband himself. Then, too, the
current was stronger than it had seemed from the shore, and he found
that he could make head against it but slowly, for the box was of an
awkward shape and the girl’s body trailing behind it so much dead
weight.

“Slow but sure,” he said, reassuringly, resting a moment. “You’re quite
all right?”

“Yes. You must not worry about me.”

He glanced back at the shore, where the lights of the camp shone dimly
through the mist.

“We’re going to drift right past the camp,” he said; “but they can’t
see us, and it will make our landing safer if we come out below the
troops. It would be rather embarrassing, wouldn’t it, if we found a
patrol waiting for us on the bank? Now for another swim!”

He pushed ahead until he found himself beginning to tire, then stopped
and looked around.

“There’s the bridge!” he said, suddenly.

And, sure enough, just ahead, they could see its dim shape spanning the
stream. A cold fear gripped Stewart’s heart. Suppose they should be
swept against one of the abutments!

“Take tight hold with both hands,” he commanded. “Don’t let go,
whatever happens!”

He swung himself round to the front of the box and tried to pierce the
gloom ahead. The center of the stream would be clear, he told himself,
and they must be nearly in the center. Then he heard the confused tread
of many feet, the current seemed to quicken, and he glanced up to see
that they were almost beneath the bridge. Yes, the stream ahead was
clear; but what were those lights down along the water?

And then he saw that a boat was moored there, and that a squad of men
were strengthening the supports with which the engineers had hastily
repaired the shattered abutment.

With frenzied energy, he pulled the box around so that his companion’s
head was hidden behind it; then, with only his nose out, he floated
silently on. They would not see him, he told himself; they were too
busily at work. Even if they did, they could make nothing of this rough
shape drifting down the river.

Nevertheless, as they swept within the circle of light cast by the
flaring torches, Stewart, taking a deep breath, let himself sink below
the surface; and not until the blood was singing in his ears did he
come up again.

They had passed! They were safe! He drew a deep breath. Then he peered
around the box.

“Are you there? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” came the soft answer. “Never tell me again that you are not a
fighter!”

“Compliments are barred until we are safe in Belgium!” he reminded her
gayly. “But it’s clear sailing now!”

He struck out again, pushing diagonally forward toward the bank which
he could not see, but which could not be far away. This was not going
to prove such a desperate adventure, after all. The worst was over,
for, once on land, far below the German troops, they had only to push
forward to find themselves among friends.

Then his heart stood still as a shrill scream rent the night--a woman’s
scream of deadly horror--and he jerked his head around to find that his
comrade was no longer there.



CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST DASH


NEVER will Stewart forget the stark horror of that instant; never
afterward did he think of it without a shudder. It was one of those
instants--fortunately few--which stamp themselves indelibly upon the
brain, which penetrate the spirit, which leave a mark not to be effaced.

It was the flash of her white arm, as she sank for the second time,
that saved her. Instinctively Stewart clutched at it, seized it,
regained the box at a vigorous stroke, threw one arm across a handle,
and raised her head above the water.

Her face was white as death, her eyes were closed, she hung a dead
weight upon his arm--and yet, Stewart told himself, she could not
have drowned in so short a time. She had been under water only a few
seconds. Perhaps she had been wounded--but he had heard no shot. His
teeth chattered as he looked at her, she lay so still, so deathlike.

And then he remembered that shrill scream of utter horror. Why had she
screamed? What was it had wrung from her that terrible cry? Had some
awful thing touched her, seized her, tried to drag her down?

Shivering with fear, Stewart looked out across the water. Was there
something lurking in those depths--some horror--some unthinkable
monster----

He shook himself impatiently; he must not give way to his nerves.
Holding her face back, he splashed some water into it, gently at first,
then more violently. She was not dead--she had only fainted. A touch on
her temple assured him that her heart was beating.

He must have been unconsciously paddling against the current, for
something touched him gently on the shoulder--a piece of driftwood,
perhaps; and then he was suddenly conscious that it was not
driftwood--that it was soft, hairy----

He spun around, to find himself staring down into a pair of unseeing
eyes, set in a face so puffed and leprous as to be scarcely human.

How he repressed the yell of terror that rose in his throat he never
knew; but he _did_ repress it somehow, and creeping with horror, pushed
the box quickly to one side. But the bloated body, caught in the swirl
of his wake, turned and followed, with an appearance of malignant
purpose which sent a chill up Stewart’s spine. Kicking frenziedly, he
held the box back against the current, and for an instant fancied that
his hideous pursuer was holding back also. But, after what seemed like
a moment’s hesitation, it drifted on down the stream and vanished in
the darkness.

For a moment longer, Stewart stared after it, half-expecting it to
reappear and bear down upon him. Then, with an anguished breath of
relief, he stopped swimming and looked down at the face upon his arm.
So that was the horror which had beset her. She had felt it nuzzling
against her, had turned as he had done! No wonder she had screamed!

He felt her bosom rise and fall with a quick gasp; then her eyes opened
and gazed up at him. For an instant they gazed vacantly and wildly,
then a flood of crimson swept from chin to brow, and she struggled to
free herself from his encircling arm.

“Easy now!” Stewart protested. “Are you sure you’re all right? Are you
sure you’re strong enough to hold on?”

“Yes, yes!” she panted. “Let me go!”

He guided her fingers to the handles, assured himself that she grasped
them firmly, then released her and swam to his old position on the
other side of the box. For a moment they floated on in silence.

“How foolish of me!” she said, at last, in a choking voice. “I suppose
you saved my life!”

“Oh, I just grabbed you by the arm and held on to you till you came to.”

“Did I scream?”

“I should rather think so! Scared me nearly to death!”

“I could not help it! I was frightened. It was--it was----”

“I know,” said Stewart, quickly. “I saw it. Don’t think about it--it
has gone on downstream.”

“It--it seemed to be following me!” she gasped.

“Yes--I had the same feeling; but it’s away ahead of us now. Now, if
you’re all right, we’ll work in toward the bank--it can’t be far off.
Hullo! What’s that?”

A shadowy shape emerged from the darkness along the eastern shore, and
they caught the rattle of oars in row-locks.

“They heard you scream,” whispered Stewart. “They’ve sent out a patrol
to investigate,” and with all his strength he pushed on toward the
farther bank.

Suddenly a shaft of light shot from the bow of the boat out across the
water, sweeping up and down, dwelling upon this piece of driftwood and
upon that. With a gasp of apprehension, Stewart swung the box around so
that it screened them from the searchlight, and kept on swimming with
all his strength.

“If they spot those bundles,” he panted, “they’ll be down upon us like
a load of brick! Ah!”

The light was upon them. Above their heads the bundles of clothing
stood out as if silhouetted against the midday sky. Stewart cursed
his folly in placing them there; surely wet clothes were preferable
to capture! He should not have taken the risk--he should have put the
clothing inside the box and let it take its chance. But it was too late
now. In another moment----

The light swept on.

From sheer reaction, Stewart’s body dropped limply for an instant
through the water, and then rebounded as from an electric shock.

“I can touch bottom!” he said, hoarsely. “We’ll get there yet. Hold
fast!”

Setting his teeth, digging his toes into the mud, he dragged the box
toward the shore with all his strength. In a moment, the water was
only to his shoulders--to his chest--he could see that his comrade was
wading, too.

He stopped, peering anxiously ahead. There was no light anywhere along
the shore, and no sound broke the stillness.

“It seems all right,” he whispered. “I will go ahead and make sure. If
it is safe, you will hear me whistle. Keep behind the box, for fear
that searchlight will sweep this way again, and when I whistle, come
straight out. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good-by, then, for a moment, little comrade!”

“Good-by.”

With one look deep into her eyes, he snatched up the bundle containing
his clothing, and crouching as low in the water as he could, set off
cautiously toward the shore. There was a narrow strip of gravel just
ahead, and behind that a belt of darkness which, he told himself, was a
wood. He could see no sign of any sentry.

As he turned at the water’s edge, he noticed a growing band of light
over the hills to the east, and knew that the moon was rising. There
was no time to lose! He whistled softly and began hastily to dress.

Low as the whistle was, it reached the boat--or perhaps it was mere
chance that brought the searchlight sweeping round just as the girl
rose in the water and started toward the shore. The light swept past
her, swept back again, and stopped full upon the flying figure, as slim
and graceful as Diana’s.

There was a hoarse shout from the boat, and the splash of straining
oars; and then Stewart was dashing forward into the water, was by her
side, had caught her hand and was dragging her toward the bank.

“Go on! Go on!” he cried, and paused to pick up his shoes, for the
sharp gravel warned him, that, with unprotected feet, flight would be
impossible. His coat lay beside them and he grabbed that too. Then
he was up again and after her, across the cruel stones of the shore,
toward the darkness of the wood and safety--one yard--two yards----

And always the searchlight beat upon them mercilessly.

There came a roar of rifles from the river, a flash of flame, the
whistle of bullets about his ears.

And then they were in the wood and he had her by the hand.

“Not hurt?” he gasped.

“No, no!”

“Thank heaven! We are safe for a moment. Get on some
clothes--especially your shoes. We can’t run barefooted!”

He was fumbling with his own shoes as he spoke--managed to thrust his
bruised feet into them--stuffed his socks into the pocket of his coat
and slipped into it.

“Ready?” he asked.

“In a moment!”

And then he felt her hand in his.

“Which way?”

He glanced back through the trees. The boat was at the bank; its
occupants were leaping out, rifles in hand; the searchlight swept up
and down.

“This way, I think!” and he guided her diagonally to the right. “Go
carefully! The less noise we make the better. But as long as those
fellows keep on shooting, they can’t hear us.”

Away they went, stumbling, scrambling, bending low to escape the
overhanging branches, saving each other from some ugly falls--up a long
incline covered by an open wood, across a little glade, over a wall,
through another strip of woodland, into a road, over another wall--and
then Stewart gave a gasp of relief, for they were in a field of grain.

“We shall be safe here,” he said, as they plunged into it. “I will
watch, while you finish dressing,” and he faced back toward the way
they had come.

The full moon was sailing high above the eastern hills, and he could
see distinctly the wall they had just crossed, with the white road
behind it, and beyond that the dense shadow of the wood. It was on the
strip of road he kept his eyes, but no living creature crossed it, and
at last he felt a touch upon his arm.

“My turn now!” the girl whispered.

Stewart sat down upon the ground, wiped the mud from his feet, shook
the gravel from his shoes, drew on his socks and laced his shoes
properly. As he started to get up, he felt a sudden sharp twinge in his
shoulder.

“What is it?” asked the girl, quickly, for an exclamation of pain had
burst from him before he could choke it back.

“Nothing at all!” he said, and rose, gingerly. “I touched a raw place,
where a briar scratched me. I seem to be composed largely of raw
places--especially as to my feet. How are yours?”

“One of them hurts a little--not enough to mention.”

“You’re sure you can walk?”

“Certainly--or run, if need be.”

“Then we had better push on a little farther. The Germans are still too
close for comfort. Keep your back to the moon--I’ll act as rear-guard.”

For a moment she looked up questioningly into his face.

“You are sure you are not hurt?” she asked.

“Perfectly sure.”

“I was afraid you had been shot--I saw how you placed yourself between
me and the river!”

“The merest accident,” he assured her. “Besides, those fellows couldn’t
shoot!”

She gazed up at him yet a moment, her lips quivering; then she turned
and started westward through the field.

Falling in behind, Stewart explored his wounded shoulder cautiously
with his fingers. He could feel that his shirt was wet with blood,
but the stabbing pain had been succeeded by a sharp stinging which
convinced him that it was only a flesh-wound. Folding his shirt back,
he found it at last, high in the shoulder above the collar-bone.

“That was lucky!” he told himself, as he pressed his handkerchief over
it, rebuttoned his shirt, and pushed on after his comrade. “Half an
inch lower and the bone would have been smashed!”

Away to the south, they could hear the thunder of the Liège forts, and
Stewart, aching from his own slight injury, thought with a shudder
of the poor fellows who had to face that deadly fire. No doubt it
was to this fresh attack the troops had been marched which they had
seen crossing the river. It was improbable that the invaders would
risk pushing westward until the forts were reduced; and so, when the
fugitives came presently to a road which ran northwestwardly, they
ventured to follow it.

“We would better hide somewhere and rest till daylight,” Stewart
suggested, at last. “We have had a hard day.”

He himself was nearly spent with fatigue and hunger, and his shoulder
was stiff and sore.

“Very well,” the girl agreed. “I too am very tired. Where shall we go?”

Stewart stopped and looked about him.

On one side of the road was a level pasture affording no shelter; on
the other side, a rolling field mounted to a strip of woodland.

“At the edge of those trees would be the best place,” he decided, and
the girl agreed with a nod.

Laboriously they clambered over the wall beside the road and set off
toward this refuge. The field was very rough and seemed interminable,
and more than once Stewart thought that he must drop where he stood;
but they reached the wood at last and threw themselves down beneath the
first clump of undergrowth.

Stewart was asleep almost before he touched the ground; but the girl
lay for a long time with eyes open, staring up into the night. Then,
very softly, she crawled to Stewart’s side, raised herself on one elbow
and looked down into his face.

It was not at all the face of the man she had met at the Kölner Hof
two days before. It was thinner and paler; there were dark circles of
exhaustion under the eyes; a stubbly beard covered the haggard cheeks,
across one of which was an ugly scratch. Yet the girl seemed to find it
beautiful. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at it; she brushed
back a lock of hair that had fallen over the forehead, and bent as
though to press a kiss there--but stopped, with a quick shake of the
head, and drew away.

“Not yet!” she whispered. “Not yet!” and crawling a little way apart,
she lay down again among the bushes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Again Stewart awoke with the sun in his eyes, and after a moment’s
confused blinking, he looked around to find himself alone.

The dull pain in his shoulder as he sat up reminded him of his wound.
Crawling a little distance back among the bushes, he slipped out of
his coat. His shirt was soaked with blood half-way down the right
side--a good sign, Stewart told himself. He knew how great a show a
little blood can make, and he was glad that the wound had bled freely.
He unbuttoned his shirt and gingerly pulled it back from the shoulder,
for the blood had dried in places and stuck fast; then he removed the
folded handkerchief, and the wound lay revealed.

He could just see it by twisting his head around, and he regarded it
with satisfaction, for, as he had thought, it was not much more than
a scratch. A bullet had grazed the shoulder-bone, plowed through the
muscle and sped on its way, leaving behind, as the only sign of its
passage, a tiny black mark.

“You are wounded!” cried a strangled voice, and in an instant his
comrade was on her knees beside him, her face pale, her lips working.
“And you did not tell me! Oh, cruel, cruel!”

There was that in the voice, in the eyes, in the trembling lips which
sent Stewart’s heart leaping into his throat. But, by a mighty effort,
he kept his arms from around her.

“Nonsense!” he said, as lightly as he could. “That’s not a wound--it is
just a scratch. This one across my cheek hurts a blamed sight worse! If
I could only wash it----”

“There is a little stream back yonder,” she said, and sprang to her
feet. “Come! Or perhaps you cannot walk!” and she put her arms around
him to help him up.

He rose with a laugh.

“Really,” he protested, “I don’t see how a scratch on the shoulder
could affect my legs!”

But she refused to make a jest of it.

“The blood--it frightens me. Are you very weak?” she asked, anxiously,
holding tight to him, as though he might collapse at any instant.

“If I am,” said Stewart, “it is from want of food, not from loss of
blood. I haven’t lost a spoonful. Ah, here’s the brook!”

He knelt beside it, while she washed the blood from his handkerchief
and tenderly bathed the injured shoulder. Stewart watched her with
fast-beating heart. Surely she cared; surely there was more than
friendly concern in that white face, in those quivering lips. Well,
very soon now, he could put it to the touch. He trembled at the
thought: would he win or lose?

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, anxiously, for she had felt him quiver.

“Not a bit--the cool water feels delightful. You see it is only a
scratch,” he added, when the clotted blood had been cleared away. “It
will be quite well in two or three days. I shan’t even have a scar! I
think it might have left a scar! What’s the use of being wounded, if
one hasn’t a scar to show for it? And I shall probably never be under
fire again!”

She smiled wanly, and a little color crept back into her face.

“How you frightened me!” she said. “I came through the bushes and saw
you sitting there, all covered with blood! You might have told me--it
was foolish to lie there all night without binding it up. Suppose you
had bled to death!” and she wrung out the handkerchief, shook it out
in the breeze until it was nearly dry, and bound it tightly over the
wound. “How does that feel?”

“It feels splendid! Really it does,” he added, seeing that she regarded
him doubtfully. “If I feel the least little twinge of pain, I will
notify you instantly. I give you my word!”

They sat for a moment silent, gazing into each other’s eyes. It was the
girl who stirred first.

“I will go to the edge of the wood and reconnoiter,” she said, rising a
little unsteadily, “while you wash your hands and face. Or shall I stay
and help?”

“No,” said Stewart, “thank you. I think I am still able to wash my own
face--that is, if you think it’s any use to wash it!” and he ran his
fingers along his stubbly jaws. “Do you think you will like me with a
beard?”

“With a beard or without one, it is all the same!” she answered,
softly, and slipped quickly away among the trees, leaving Stewart to
make what he could of this cryptic utterance.

Despite his gnawing hunger, despite his stiff shoulder and sore
muscles, he was very, very happy as he bent above the clear water and
drank deep, and bathed hands and face. How good it was to be alive! How
good it was to be just here this glorious morning! With no man on earth
would he have changed places!

He did not linger over his toilet. Every moment away from his comrade
was a moment lost. He found her sitting at the edge of the wood, gazing
down across the valley, her hair stirring slightly in the breeze, her
whole being radiant with youth. He looked at her for a moment, and then
he looked down at himself.

“What a scarecrow I am,” he said, and ruefully contemplated a long
tear in his coat--merely the largest of half a dozen. “And I lost my
collar in that dash last night--I left it on the bank, and didn’t dare
stop to look for it. Even if we met the Germans now, there would be no
danger--they would take us for tramps!”

“I know I look like a scarecrow,” she laughed; “but you might have
spared telling me!”

“You!” cried Stewart. “A scarecrow! Oh, no; you would attract the
birds. They would find you adorable!”

His eyes added that not alone to the birds was she adorable.

She cast one glance at him--a luminous glance, shy yet glad; abashed
yet rejoicing. Then she turned away.

“There is a village over yonder,” she said. “We can get something to
eat there, and find out where we are. Listen! What is that?”

Away to the south a dull rumbling shook the horizon--a mighty shock as
of an earthquake.

“The Germans have got their siege-guns into position,” he said. “They
are attacking Liège again.”

Yes, there could be no doubt of it; murder and desolation were stalking
across the country to the south. But nothing could be more peaceful
than the fields which stretched before them.

“There is no danger here,” said Stewart, and led the way down across
the rough pasture to the road.

As he mounted the wall, moved by some strange uneasiness, he stopped to
look back toward the east; but the road stretched white and empty until
it plunged into a strip of woodland a mile away.

Somehow he was not reassured. With that strange uneasiness still
weighing on him, a sense of oppression as of an approaching storm, he
sprang down beside the girl, and they set off westward side by side. At
first they could not see the village, which was hid by a spur of rising
ground; then, at a turn of the road, they found it close in front of
them.

But the road was blocked with fallen trees, strung with barbed
wire--and what was that queer embankment of fresh, yellow earth which
stretched to right and left?

“The Belgians!” cried the girl. “Come! We are safe at last!” and she
started to run forward.

But only for an instant. As though that cry of hers was an awaited
signal, there came a crash of musketry from the wooded ridge to the
right, and an answering crash from the crest of the embankment; and
Stewart saw that light and speeding figure spin half round, crumple in
upon itself, and drop limply to the road.



CHAPTER XV

DISASTER


HE was beside her in an instant, his arm around her, raising her. He
scarcely heard the guns; he scarcely heard the whistle of the bullets;
he knew only, as he knelt there in the road, that his little comrade
had been stricken down.

Where was she wounded?

Not in the head, thank God! Not in the throat, so white and delicate.
The breast, perhaps, and with trembling fingers he tore aside the coat.

She opened her eyes and looked dazedly up at him.

“_Qu’y a-t-il?_” she murmured. Then her vision cleared. “What is the
matter?” she asked in a stronger voice.

“You’ve been hit,” he panted. “Do you feel pain?”

She closed her eyes for an instant.

“No,” she answered; “but my left leg is numb, as if----”

“Pray heaven it is only in the leg! I must get you somewhere out of
this.” He raised his head to look around, and was suddenly conscious of
the banging guns. “Damn these lunatics! Oh, damn them!”

The ridges on either side were rimmed with fire. He cast a glance
behind him and his heart stood still, for a troop of cavalry was
deploying into the road. Forward, then, to the village, since that was
the only way.

He stooped to lift her.

“I may hurt you a little,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to carry you to the village. Here, wave your handkerchief
to show them that we are friends,” and he drew it from her pocket and
thrust it into her hand. “Now, your arm about my neck.”

She obeyed mutely; then, as he straightened up, she saw, over his
shoulder, the cavalry forming for the charge.

“No, no!” she cried. “Put me down. Here are the letters! See, I am
placing them in your pocket! Now, put me down and save yourself!”

He was picking his way forward over the barbed wire. He dared not lift
his eyes from the road even for a glance at her.

“Be still!” he commanded. “Don’t struggle so! I will not put you down!
Wave the handkerchief!”

“There is cavalry down yonder,” she protested, wildly. “It will charge
in a moment!”

“I know it! That’s one reason I will not put you down!”

He was past the wire; he could look at her for an instant--into her
eyes, so close to his; deep into her eyes, dark with fear and pain.

“Another reason is,” he said, deliberately, “that I love you! I am
telling you now because I want you to know, if this should be the end!
I love you, love you, love you!”

He was forced to look away from her, for there were fallen trees in
front, but he felt the arm around his neck tighten.

And then he bent his head and kissed her.

“Like that!” he said, hoarsely. “Only a thousand times more than
that--a million times more than that!”

She pulled herself up until her cheek was pressed to his; and her eyes
were like twin stars.

“And I!” she whispered. “A million times more than that. Oh, my prince,
my lover!”

Stewart’s veins ran fire, His fatigue dropped from him. He trod on air.
He threw back his head proudly, for he felt himself invincible. He was
contemptuous of fate--it could not harm him now!

“And yet you wanted me to put you down!” he mocked.

She snuggled against him, warm and womanly; she gave herself to him.

“Oh, hold me close!” she seemed to say. “Hold me close, close! I am
yours now!”

“Wave the handkerchief!” he added. “We’re getting near the barricade.
Life is too sweet to end just yet!”

She smiled up into his eyes, and waved the handkerchief at arm’s length
above their heads. Stewart, glancing up, saw a row of faces crowned by
queer black shakos peering curiously down from the top of the barricade.

“They have seen us!” he said. “They’re not firing! They understand that
we are friends! Courage, little comrade!”

“I am not afraid,” she smiled. “And I love that name--little comrade!”

“Here are the last entanglements--and then we’re through. What is that
cavalry doing?”

She gave a little cry as she looked back along the road. At the same
instant, Stewart heard the thunder of galloping hoofs.

“They are coming!” she screamed. “Oh, put me down! Put me down!”

“Not I!” gasped Stewart between his teeth, and glanced over his
shoulder.

The Uhlans were charging in solid mass, their lances couched.

There was just one chance of escape--Stewart saw it instantly. Holding
the girl close, he leaped into the ditch beside the road and threw
himself flat against the ground, shielding her with his body.

In an instant the thunder of the charge was upon him. Then, high above
the rattle of guns, rose the shouts of men, the screams of horses,
the savage shock of the encounter. Something rolled upon him,--lay
quivering against him--a wounded man--a dead one, perhaps--in any
event, he told himself, grimly, so much added protection. Pray heaven
that a maddened horse did not tramp them down!

The tumult died, the firing slackened. What was that? A burst of
cheering?

Stewart ventured to raise his head and look about him; then, with a
gasp, he threw off the weight, caught up his companion and staggered
to his feet. Yes; it was a body which had fallen upon him. It rolled
slowly over on its back as he arose, and he saw a ghastly wound between
the eyes.

“They have been repulsed!” he panted. “Wave the handkerchief!” With
his heart straining in his throat, he clambered out of the ditch and
staggered on. “Don’t look!” he added, for the road was strewn with
horrors. “Don’t look!”

She gazed up at him, smiling calmly.

“I shall look only at you, my lover!” she said, softly, and Stewart
tightened his grip and held her close!

There was the barricade, with cheering men atop it, exposing themselves
with utter recklessness to the bullets which still whistled from right
and left. Stewart felt his knees trembling. Could he reach it? Could
he lift his foot over this entanglement? Could he possibly step across
this body?

Suddenly he felt his burden lifted from him and a strong arm thrown
about his shoulders.

“Friends!” he gasped. “We’re friends!”

Then he heard the girl’s clear voice speaking in rapid French, and
men’s voices answering eagerly. The mist cleared a little from before
his eyes, and he found that the arm about his shoulders belonged to
a stocky Belgian soldier who was leading him past one end of the
barricade, close behind another who bore the girl in his arms.

At the other side an officer stopped them.

“Who are you?” he asked in French. “From where do you come?”

“We are friends,” said the girl. “We have fled from Germany. We have
both been wounded.”

“Yes,” said Stewart, and showed his blood-stained shirt. “Mine is only
a scratch, but my comrade needs attention.”

A sudden shout from the top of the barricade told that the Uhlans were
re-forming.

“You must look out for yourselves,” said the officer. “I will hear your
story later,” and he bounded back to his place beside his men.

The soldier who was carrying the girl dropped her abruptly into
Stewart’s arms and followed his captain. In an instant the firing
recommenced.

Stewart looked wildly about him. He was in a village street, with
close-built houses on either side.

“I must find a wagon,” he gasped, “or something----”

His breath failed him, but he staggered on. The mist was before his
eyes again, his tongue seemed dry and swollen.

Suddenly the arm about his neck relaxed, the head fell back----

He cast one haggard glance down into the white face, then turned
through the nearest doorway.

Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought--perhaps she
had not told him. He must see--he must make sure----

He found himself in a tiled passage, opening into a low-ceilinged room
lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, he
stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and
upon this he gently laid his burden.

Before he could catch himself, he had fallen heavily to the floor, and
lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness passed. With
set teeth, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found,
with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound in the leg, and
quickly ripped away the cloth.

The bullet had passed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a
tiny puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound
was not dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it--it must be
washed and dressed.

He found a pail of water in the kitchen, snatched a sheet from a bed
in another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him,
the mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of
exhaustion passed.

“It is only a scratch!” whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to
find her smiling up at him. “It is just a scratch like yours!”

“It is much more than a scratch!” he said, sternly. “You must lie
still, or you will start the bleeding.”

“Tyrant!” she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see
what he was doing. “Oh! is it there?” she said, in surprise. “I didn’t
feel it there.”

“Where did you feel it?” Stewart demanded. “Not in the body? Tell me
the truth!”

“It seemed to me to be somewhere below the knee. But how savage you
are!”

“I’m savage because you are hurt. I can’t stand it to see you suffer!”
and with lips compressed, he bandaged the wound with some strips torn
from the sheet. Then he ran his fingers down over the calf, and brought
them away stained with blood. He caught up his knife and ripped the
cloth clear down.

“Really,” she protested, “I shall not have any clothing left, if you
keep on like that! I do not see how I am going to appear in public as
it is!”

He grimly washed the blood away without replying. On either side of the
calf, he found a tiny black spot where the second bullet had passed
through.

“These German bullets seem to be about the size of peas,” he remarked,
as he bandaged the leg; then he raised his head and listened, as the
firing outside rose to a furious crescendo. “They’re at it again!” he
added. “We must be getting out of this!”

She reached up, caught him by the coat, and drew him down to her.

“Listen,” she said. “The letters are in your pocket. Should we be
separated----”

“We will not be separated,” he broke in, impatiently. “Do you suppose I
would permit anything to separate us now?”

“I know, dear one,” she said, softly. “But if we should be, you
will carry the letters to General Joffre? Oh, do not hesitate!” she
cried. “Promise me! They mean so much to me--my life’s work--all my
ambitions--all my hopes----”

“Very well,” he said. “I promise.”

“You have not forgotten the sign and the formula?”

“No.”

She passed an arm about his neck and drew him still closer.

“Kiss me!” she whispered.

And Stewart, shaken, transported, deliriously happy, pressed his lips
to hers in a long, close, passionate embrace.

At last she drew her arm away.

“I am very tired,” she whispered, smiling dreamily up at him; “and
very, very happy. I do not believe I can go on, dear one.”

“I will get a wagon of some kind--a hand-cart, if nothing better. There
must be ambulances somewhere about----”

He paused, listening, for the firing at the barricade had started
furiously again.

“I will be back in a moment,” he said, and ran to the street door and
looked out. As he did so, a wounded soldier hobbled past, using his
rifle as a crutch.

“How goes it?” Stewart inquired, in French.

“We hold them off,” answered the soldier, smiling cheerfully, though
his face was drawn with pain.

“Will they break through?”

“No. Our reënforcements are coming up,” and the little soldier hobbled
away down the street.

“I should have asked him where the ambulances are,” thought Stewart. He
glanced again toward the barricade. The firing had slackened; evidently
the assailants had again been repulsed. Yes, there was time, and he
darted down the street after the limping soldier. He was at his side in
a moment. “Where are the ambulances?” he asked.

The soldier, turning to reply, glanced back along the street and his
face went livid.

“Ah, good God!” he groaned. “Look yonder!”

And, looking, Stewart beheld a gray-green flood pouring over the
barricade, beheld the flash of reddened bayonets, beheld the little
band of Belgians swept backward.

With a cry of anguish, he sprang back along the street, but in an
instant the tide was upon him. He fought against it furiously,
striking, cursing, praying----

And suddenly he found himself face to face with the Belgian officer,
blood-stained, demoniac, shouting encouragement to his men. His eyes
flashed with amazement when he saw Stewart.

“Go back! Go back!” he shouted.

“My comrade is back there!” panted Stewart, and tried to pass.

But the officer caught his arm.

“Madman!” he cried. “It is death to go that way!”

“What is that to me?” retorted Stewart, and wrenched his arm away.

The officer watched him for an instant, then turned away with a shrug.
After all, he reflected, it was none of his affair; his task was to
hold the Germans back, and he threw himself into it.

“Steady, men!” he shouted. “Steady! Our reserves are coming!”

And his men cheered and held a firm front, though it cost them dear--so
firm and steady that Stewart found he could not get past it, but
was carried back foot by foot, too exhausted to resist, entangled
hopelessly in the retreat. The Germans pressed forward, filling the
street from side to side, compact, irresistible.

And then the Belgians heard behind them the gallop of horses, the
roll of heavy wheels, and their captain, glancing back, saw that a
quick-firer had swung into position in the middle of the street.

“Steady, men!” he shouted. “We have them now! Steady till I give the
word!” He glanced back again and caught the gun-captain’s nod. “Now! To
the side and back!” he screamed.

The men, with a savage cheer, sprang to right and left, into doorways,
close against the walls, and the gun, with a purr of delight, let loose
its lightnings into the advancing horde.

Stewart, who had been swept aside with the others without
understanding what was happening, gasping, rubbing his eyes, staring
down the street, saw the gray line suddenly stop and crumple up. Then,
with a savage yell, it dashed forward and stopped again. He saw an
officer raise his sword to urge them on, then fall crashing to the
street; he saw that instant of indecision which is fatal to any charge;
and then stark terror ran through the ranks, and they turned to flee.

But the pressure from the rear cut off escape in that direction, and
the human flood burst into the houses on either side, swept through
them, out across the fields, and away. And steadily the little gun
purred on, as though reveling in its awful work, until the street was
clear.

But the Germans, though they had suffered terribly, were not yet
routed. A remnant of them held together behind the houses at the end of
the street, and still others took up a position behind the barricade
and swept the street with their rifles.

The little officer bit his lip in perplexity as he looked about at
his company, so sadly reduced in numbers. Should he try to retake the
barricade with a rush, or should he wait for reënforcements? He loved
his men--surely, they had more than played their part. Then his eye was
caught by a bent figure which dodged from doorway to doorway.

“That madman again!” he muttered, and watched, expecting every instant
to see him fall.

For Stewart had not waited for the captain’s decision. Almost before
the Germans turned to flee, he was creeping low along the wall,
taking advantage of such shelter as there was. The whistle of the
machine-gun’s bullets filled the street. One nipped him across the
wrist, another grazed his arm, and then, as the Germans rallied, he saw
ahead of him the vicious flashes of their rifles.

He was not afraid; indeed, he was strangely calm. He was quite
certain that he would not be killed--others might fall, but not he.
Others--yes, here they were; dozens, scores, piled from wall to wall.
For here was where the machine-gun had caught the German advance and
smote it down. They lay piled one upon another, young men, all of them;
some lying with arms flung wide, staring blindly up at the sky; a few
moaning feebly, knowing only that they suffered; two or three trying
to pull themselves from beneath the heap of dead; one coward burrowing
deeper into it! He could hear the thud, thud of the bullets from either
end of the street as they struck the mass of bodies, dead and wounded
alike, until there were no longer any wounded; until even the coward
lay still!

Sick and dizzy, he pushed on. Was this the house? The door stood open
and he stepped inside and looked around. No, this was not it.

The next one, perhaps--all these houses looked alike from the street.
As he reached the door, a swirl of acrid smoke beat into his face. He
looked out quickly. The barricade was obscured by smoke; dense masses
rolled out of the houses on either side. The Germans had fired the
village!

Into the next house Stewart staggered--vainly; and into the next. He
could hear the crackling of the flames; the smoke grew thicker----

Into the next!

He knew it the instant he crossed the threshold; yes, this was the
entry, this was the room, there was the settle----

He stopped, staring, gasping----

The settle was empty.

Slowly he stepped forward, gazing about him. Yes, there was the
bucket of water on the floor, just as he had left it; there were the
blood-stained rags; there was the torn sheet.

But the settle was empty.

He threw himself beside it and ran his hands over it, to be sure that
his eyes were not deceiving him.

No; the settle was empty.

He ran into the next room and the next. He ran all through the house
calling, “Comrade! Little comrade!”

But there was no reply. The rooms were empty, one and all.

Half-suffocated, palsied with despair, he reeled back to the room where
he had left her, and stared about it. Could he be mistaken? No; there
was the bucket, the bandages----

But what was that dark stain in the middle of the white, sanded floor.
He drew close and looked at it. It was blood.

Still staring, he backed away. Blood--whose blood? Not hers! Not his
little comrade’s!

And suddenly his strength fell from him; he staggered, dropped to his
knees----

This was the end, then--this was the end. There on the settle was where
she had lain; it was there she had drawn him down for that last caress;
and the letters,--ah, they would never be delivered now! But at least
he could die there, with his head where hers had been.

Blinded, choking, he dragged himself forward--here was the place!

“Little comrade!” he murmured. “Little comrade!”

And he fell forward across the settle, his face buried in his arms.



CHAPTER XVI

A TRUST FULFILLED


WHEN Stewart opened his eyes again it was to find himself looking up
into a good-humored face, which he did not at first recognize. It was
brown and dirty, there was a three-days’ growth of beard upon cheeks
and chin, and a deep red scratch across the forehead, but the eyes were
bright and the lips smiling, as of a man superior to every fortune--and
then he recognized the little Belgian captain whose troops had defended
the village.

Instantly memory surged back upon him--memory bitter and painful. He
raised his head and looked about him. He was lying under a clump of
trees not far from the bank of a little stream, along which a company
of Belgian soldiers were busy throwing up intrenchments.

“Ah, so you are better!” said the captain, in his clipped French, his
eyes beaming with satisfaction. “That is good! A little more of that
smoke, and it would have been all over with you!” and he gestured
toward the eastern horizon, above which hung a black and threatening
cloud.

Stewart pulled himself to a sitting posture and stared for a moment at
the cloud as it billowed in the wind. Then he passed his hand before
his eyes and stared again. And suddenly all his strength seemed to go
from him and he lay quietly down again.

“So bad as that!” said the officer, sympathetically, struck by the
whiteness of his face. “And I have nothing to give you--not a swallow
of wine--not a sip!”

“It will pass,” said Stewart, hoarsely. “I shall be all right
presently. But I do not understand French very well. Do you speak
English?”

“A lit-tle,” answered the other, and spoke thereafter in a mixture of
French and English, which Stewart found intelligible, but which need
not be indicated here.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Stewart asked, at last.

“Ah, we drove them out!” cried the captain, his face gleaming. “My men
behaved splendidly--they are brave boys, as you yourself saw. We made
it--how you say?--too hot for the Germans; but we could not remain.
They were pushing up in force on every side, and they had set fire to
the place. So we took up our wounded and fell back. At the last moment,
I happen to remember that I had seen you dodging along the street in
face of the German fire, so I look for you in this house and in that.
At last I find you in a room full of smoke, lying across a bench,
and I bring you away. Now we wait for another attack. It will come
soon--our scouts have seen the Germans preparing to advance. Then we
fight as long as we can and kill as many as we can, and then give back
to a new position. That, over and over again, will be our part in this
war--to hold them until France has time to strike. But I pity my poor
country,” and his face grew dark. “There will be little left of her
when those barbarians have finished. They are astounded that we fight,
that we dare oppose them; they are maddened that we hold them back, for
time means everything to them. They revenge themselves by burning our
villages and killing defenseless people. Ah, well, they shall pay! Tell
me, my friend,” he added, in another tone, “why did you risk death in
that reckless fashion? Why did you kneel beside that bench?”

“It was there I left my comrade,” Stewart answered, brokenly, his face
convulsed. “She was wounded--she could not walk--I was too exhausted
to carry her--I went to look for a cart--for an ambulance--I had
scarcely taken a step, when the Germans swept over the barricade and
into the town. When I got back to the house where I had left her, she
was not there.”

“Ah,” said the other, looking down at Stewart, thoughtfully. “It was a
woman, then?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife?”

“She had promised to become my wife,” and Stewart looked at the other,
steadily.

“You are an American, are you not?”

“Yes--I have my passport.”

“And Madame--was she also an American?”

“No--she was a Frenchwoman. She was shot twice in the leg as we ran
toward your barricade--seriously--it was quite impossible for her to
walk. But when I got back to the house, she was not there. What had
happened to her?”

His companion gazed out over the meadows and shook his head.

“You looked in the other rooms?” he asked.

“Everywhere--all through the house--she was not there! Ah, and I
remember now,” he added, struggling to a sitting posture, his face
more livid, if possible, than it had been before. “There was a great
bloodstain on the floor that was not there when I left her. How could
it have got there? I cannot understand!”

Again the officer shook his head, his eyes still on the billowing smoke.

“It is very strange,” he murmured.

“I must go back!” cried Stewart. “I must search for her!” and he tried
to rise.

The other put out a hand to stop him, but drew it back, seeing it
unnecessary.

“Impossible!” he said. “You see, you cannot even stand!”

“I have had nothing to eat since yesterday,” Stewart explained. “Then
only some eggs and apples. If I could get some food----”

He broke off, his chin quivering helplessly, as he realized his
weakness. He was very near to tears.

“Even if you could walk,” the other pointed out, “even if you were
quite strong, it would still be impossible. The Germans have burned the
village; they are now on this side of it. If Madame is still alive, she
is safe. Barbarians as they are, they would not kill a wounded woman!”

“Oh, you don’t know!” groaned Stewart. “You don’t know! They would kill
her without compunction!” and weakness and hunger and despair were too
much for him. He threw himself forward on his face, shaken by great
sobs.

The little officer sat quite still, his face very sad. There was no
glory about war--that was merely a fiction to hold soldiers to their
work; it was all horrible, detestable, inhuman. He had seen brave men
killed, torn, mutilated; he had seen inoffensive people driven from
their homes and left to starve; he had seen women weeping for their
husbands and children for their fathers; he had seen terror stalk
across the quiet countryside--famine, want, despair----

The paroxysm passed, and Stewart gradually regained his self-control.

“You will, of course, do as you think best,” said his companion, at
last; “but I could perhaps be of help if I knew more. How do you come
to be in these rags? Why was Madame dressed as a man? Why should the
Germans kill her? These are things that I should like to know--but you
will tell me as much or as little as you please.”

Before he was well aware of it, so hungry was he for comfort, Stewart
found himself embarked upon the story. It flowed from his lips so
rapidly, so brokenly, as poignant memory stabbed through him, that more
than once his listener stopped him and asked him to repeat. For the
rest, he sat staring out at the burning village, his eyes bright, his
hands clenched.

And when the story was over, he arose, faced the east, and saluted
stiffly.

“_Madame!_” he said--and so paid her the highest tribute in a soldier’s
power.

Then he sat down again, and there was a moment’s silence.

“What you have told me,” he said, slowly, at last, “moves me beyond
words! Believe me, I would advance this instant, I would risk my whole
command, if I thought there was the slightest chance of rescuing that
intrepid and glorious woman. But there is no chance. That village is
held by at least a regiment.”

“What could have happened?” asked Stewart, again. “Where could she have
gone?”

“I cannot imagine. I can only hope that she is safe. Most probably she
has been taken prisoner. Even in that case, there is little danger that
she will ever be recognized.”

“But why should they take prisoner a wounded civilian?” Stewart
persisted. “I cannot understand it--unless----”

His voice died in his throat.

“Unless what?” asked the officer, turning on him quickly. “What is it
you fear?”

“Unless she _was_ recognized!” cried Stewart, hoarsely.

But the other shook his head.

“If she had been recognized--which is most improbable--she would not
have been taken prisoner at all. She would have been shot where she
lay.”

And then again that dark stain upon the floor flashed before Stewart’s
eyes. Perhaps that had really happened. Perhaps that blood was hers!

“It is the suspense!” he groaned. “The damnable suspense!”

“I know,” said the other, gently. “It is always the missing who cause
the deepest anguish. One can only wait and hope and pray! That is all
that you can do--that and one other thing.”

“What other thing?” Stewart demanded.

“She intrusted you with a mission, did she not?” asked the little
captain, gently. “Living or dead, she would be glad to know that you
fulfilled it, for it was very dear to her. You still have the letters?”

Stewart thrust his hand into his pocket and brought them forth.

“You are right,” he said, and rose unsteadily. “Where will I find
General Joffre?”

The other had risen, too, and was supporting him with a strong hand.

“That I do not know,” he answered; “somewhere along the French
frontier, no doubt, mustering his forces.”

Stewart looked about him uncertainly.

“If I were only stronger,” he began.

“Wait,” the little officer broke in. “I think I have it--I am expecting
instructions from our headquarters at St. Trond--they should arrive
at any moment--and I can send you back in the car which brings them.
At headquarters they will be able to tell you something definite, and
perhaps to help you.” He glanced anxiously toward the east and then
cast an appraising eye over the intrenchments his troops had dug. “We
can hold them back for a time,” he added, “but we need reënforcements
badly. Ah, there comes the car!”

A powerful gray motor spun down the road from the west, kicking up a
great cloud of dust, and in a moment the little captain had received
his instructions. He tore the envelope open and read its contents
eagerly. Then he turned to his men, his face shining.

“The Sixty-third will be here in half an hour!” he shouted. “We will
give those fellows a hot dose this time!”

His men cheered the news with waving shakos, then, with a glance
eastward, fell to work again on their trenches, which would have to
be extended to accommodate the reënforcements. Their captain stepped
close to the side of the purring car, made his report to an officer
who sat beside the driver, and then the two carried on for a moment a
low-toned conversation. More than once they glanced at Stewart, and the
conversation ended with a sharp nod from the officer in the car. The
other came hurrying back.

“It is all right,” he said. “You will be at St. Trond in half an hour,”
and he helped him to mount into the tonneau.

For an instant Stewart stood there, staring back at the cloud of smoke
above the burning village; then he dropped into the seat and turned to
say good-by to the gallant fellow who had proved so true a friend.

The little soldier was standing with heels together, head thrown back,
hand at the visor of his cap.

“_Monsieur!_” he said, simply, as his eyes met Stewart’s, and then the
car started.

Stewart looked back through a mist of tears, and waved his hand to that
martial little figure, so hopeful and indomitable. Should he ever see
that gallant friend again? Chance was all against it. An hour hence,
he might be lying in the road, a bullet through his heart; if not an
hour hence, then to-morrow or next day. And before this war was over,
how many others would be lying so, arms flung wide, eyes staring at the
sky--just as those young Germans had lain back yonder!

He thrust such thoughts away. They were too bitter, too terrible. But
as his vision cleared, he saw on every hand the evidence of war’s
desolation.

The road was thronged with fugitives--old men, women, and
children--fleeing westward away from their ruined homes, away from the
plague which was devastating their land. Their faces were vacant with
despair, or wet with silent tears. For whither could they flee? Where
could they hope for food and shelter? How could their journey end, save
at the goal of death?

The car threaded its way slowly among these heart-broken people,
passed through silent and deserted villages, by fields of grain that
would never be harvested, along quiet streams which would soon be red
with blood; and at last it came to St. Trond, and stopped before the
town-hall, from whose beautiful old belfry floated the Belgian flag.

“If you will wait here, sir,” said the officer, and jumped to the
pavement and hurried up the steps.

So Stewart waited, an object of much curiosity to the passing crowd.
Other cars dashed up from time to time, officers jumped out with
reports, jumped in again with orders and dashed away. Plainly, Belgium
was not dismayed even in face of this great invasion. She was fighting
coolly, intelligently, with her whole strength.

And then an officer came down the steps, sprang to the footboard of the
machine, and looked at Stewart.

“I am told you have a message,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I am a member of the French staff. Can you deliver it to me?”

“I was told to deliver it only to General Joffre.”

“Ah! in that case----”

The officer caught his lower lip between the thumb and little finger of
his left hand, as if in perplexity. So naturally was it done that for
an instant Stewart did not recognize the sign; then, hastily, he passed
his left hand across his eyes.

The officer looked at him keenly.

“Have we not met before?” he asked.

“In Berlin; on the twenty-second,” Stewart answered.

The officer’s face cleared, and he stepped over the door into the
tonneau.

“I am at your service, sir,” he said. “First you must rest a little,
and have some clean clothes, and a bath and food. I can see that you
have had a hard time. Then we will set out.”

An hour later, more comfortable in body than it had seemed possible
he could ever be again, Stewart lay back among the deep cushions of a
high-powered car, which whizzed southward along a pleasant road. He
did not know his destination. He had not inquired, and indeed he did
not care. But had he known Belgium, he would have recognized Landen
and Ramillies; he would have known that those high white cliffs ahead
bordered the Meuse; he would have seen that this pinnacled town they
were approaching was Namur.

The car was stopped at the city gate by a sentry, and taken to the
town-hall, where the chauffeur’s papers were examined and verified.
Then they were off again, across the placid river and straight
southward, close beside its western bank. Stewart had never seen a more
beautiful country. The other shore was closed in by towering rugged
cliffs, with a white villa here and there squeezed in between wall
and water or perched on a high ledge. Sometimes the cliffs gave back
to make room for a tiny, red-roofed village; again they were riven by
great fissures or pitted with yawning chasms.

Evening came, and still the car sped southward. There were no evidences
here of war. As the calm stars came out one by one, Stewart could have
fancied that it was all a dream, but for that dull agony of the spirit
which he felt would never leave him--and for that strand of lustrous
hair which now lay warm above his heart--and which, alas! was all he
had of her!

Yes--there were the two letters which rustled under his fingers as
he thrust them into his pocket. He had looked at them more than once
during the afternoon, delighting to handle them because they had been
hers, imagining that he could detect on them the faint aroma of her
presence. He had turned them over and over, had slipped out the sheets
of closely-written paper, and read them through and through, hoping for
some clew to the identity of the woman he had lost. It was an added
anguish that he did not even know her name!

The letters did not help him. They contained nothing but innocent,
careless, light-hearted, impersonal gossip, written apparently by
one young woman to another. “My dear cousin,” they were addressed,
and Stewart could have wept at the irony which denied him even her
first name. They were in English--excellent English--a little stiff,
perhaps--just such English as she had spoken--and the envelopes bore
the superscription, “Mrs. Bradford Stewart, Spa, Belgium.” But so far
as he could see they had nothing to do with her--they were just a part
of the elaborate plot in which he had been entangled.

But what secret could they contain? A code? If so, it was very perfect,
for nothing could be more simple, more direct, more unaffected than
the letters themselves. A swift doubt swept over him. Perhaps, once
in the presence of the general, he would find that he had played the
fool--that there was nothing in these letters.

And yet a woman had risked her life for them. Face to face with death,
she had made him swear to deliver them. Well, he would keep his oath!

He was still very tired, and at last he lay back among the cushions and
closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

“_Halte là!_” cried a sharp voice.

The brakes squeaked and groaned as they were jammed down. Stewart,
shaken from his nap, sat up and looked about him. Ahead gleamed the
lights of a town; he could hear a train rumbling past along the river
bank,

There was a moment’s colloquy between the chauffeur and a man in
uniform; a paper was examined by the light of an electric torch; then
the man stepped to one side and the car started slowly ahead.

The rumbling train came to a stop, and Stewart, rubbing his
eyes, saw a regiment of soldiers leaping from it down to a long,
brilliantly-lighted platform. They wore red trousers and long blue
coats folded back in front--and with a shock, Stewart realized that
they were French--that these were the men who were soon to face
those gray-clad legions back yonder. Then, above the entrance to the
station, its name flashed into view,--“Givet.” They had passed the
frontier--they were in France.

The car rolled on, crossed the river by a long bridge, and finally
came to a stop before a great, barn-like building, every window of
which blazed with light, and where streams of officers were constantly
arriving and departing.

At once a sentry leaped upon the footboard; again the chauffeur
produced his paper, and an officer was summoned, who glanced at it, and
immediately stepped back and threw open the door of the tonneau.

“This way, sir, if you please,” he said to Stewart.

As the latter rose heavily, stiff with long sitting, the officer held
out his arm and helped him to alight.

“You are very tired, is it not so?” he asked, and still supporting him,
led the way up the steps, along a hall, and into a long room where many
persons were sitting on benches against the walls or slowly walking up
and down. “You will wait here,” added his guide. “It will not be long,”
and he hurried away.

Stewart dropped upon a bench and looked about him. There were a few
women in the room--and he wondered at their presence there--but most of
its occupants were men, some in uniform, others in civilian dress of
the most diverse kinds, of all grades of society. Stewart was struck at
once by the fact that they were all silent, exchanging not a word, not
even a glance. Each kept his eyes to himself as if it were a point of
honor so to do.

Suddenly Stewart understood. These were agents of the secret service,
waiting to report to their chief or to be assigned to some difficult
and dangerous task. One by one they were summoned, disappeared through
the door, and did not return.

At last it was to Stewart the messenger came.

“This way, sir,” he said.

Stewart followed him out into the hall, through a door guarded by two
sentries, and into a little room beyond a deep ante-chamber, where a
white-haired man sat before a great table covered with papers. The
messenger stood aside for Stewart to pass, then went swiftly out and
closed the door.

The man at the table examined his visitor with a long and penetrating
glance, his face cold, impassive, expressionless.

“You are not one of ours,” he said, at last, in English.

“No, I am an American.”

“So I perceived. And yet you have a message?”

“Yes.”

“How came you by it?”

“It was intrusted to me by one of your agents who joined me at
Aix-la-Chapelle.”

A sudden flame of excitement blazed into the cold eyes.

“May I ask your name?”

“Bradford Stewart.”

The man snatched up a memorandum from the desk and glanced at it. Then
he sprang to his feet.

“Your pardon, Mr. Stewart,” he said. “I did not catch your name--or, if
I did, my brain did not supply the connection, as it should have done.
My only excuse is that I have so many things to think of. Pray sit
down,” and he drew up a chair. “Where is the person who joined you at
Aix?”

“I fear that she is dead,” answered Stewart, in a low voice.

“Dead!” echoed the other, visibly and deeply moved. “Dead! But no, that
cannot be!” He passed his hand feverishly before his eyes. “I will hear
your story presently--first, the message. It is a written one?”

“Yes, in the form of two letters.”

“May I see them?”

Stewart hesitated.

“I promised to deliver them only to General Joffre,” he explained.

“I understand. But the general is very busy. I must see the letters for
a moment before I ask him for an audience.”

Without a word, Stewart passed them over. He saw the flush of
excitement with which the other looked at them; he saw how his hand
trembled as he drew out the sheets, glanced at them, thrust them
hastily back, and touched a button on his desk.

Instantly the door opened and the messenger appeared.

“Inquire of General Joffre if he can see me for a moment on a matter of
the first importance,” said the man. The messenger bowed and withdrew.
“Yes, of the first importance,” he added, turning to Stewart, with
shining eyes. “Here are the letters--I will not deprive you, sir, of
the pleasure of yourself placing them in our general’s hands. And it is
to him you shall tell your story.”

The door opened and the messenger appeared.

“The general will be pleased to receive Monsieur at once,” he said, and
stood aside for them to pass.

At the end of the hall was a large room crowded with officers. Beyond
this was a smaller room where six men, each with his secretary, sat
around a long table. At its head sat a plump little man, with white
hair and bristling white mustache, which contrasted strongly with a
face darkened and reddened by exposure to wind and rain, and lighted by
a pair of eyes incredibly bright.

He was busy with a memorandum, but looked up as Stewart and his
companion entered.

“Well, Fernande?” he said; but Stewart did not know till afterward
that the man at his side was the famous head of the French Intelligence
Department, the eyes and ears of the French army--captain of an army of
his own, every member of which went daily in peril of a dreadful death.

“General,” said Fernande, in a voice whose trembling earnestness caused
every man present suddenly to raise his head, “I have the pleasure of
introducing to you an American, Mr. Bradford Stewart, who, at great
peril to himself, has brought you a message which I believe to be of
the first importance.”

General Joffre bowed.

“I am pleased to meet Mr. Stewart,” he said. “What is this message?”

“It is in these letters, sir,” said Stewart, and placed the envelopes
in his hand.

The general glanced at them, then slowly drew out the enclosures.

“We shall need a candle,” said Fernande; “also a flat dish of water.”

One of the secretaries hastened away to get them. He was back in
a moment, and Fernande, having lighted the candle, took from his
waistcoat pocket a tiny phial of blue liquid, and dropped three drops
into the dish.

“Now we are ready, gentlemen,” he said. “You are about to witness a
most interesting experiment.”

He picked up one of the sheets, dipped it into the water, then held it
close to the flame of the candle.

Stewart, watching curiously, saw a multitude of red lines leap out upon
the sheet--lines which zig-zagged this way and that, apparently without
meaning.

But to the others in the room they seemed anything but meaningless. As
sheet followed sheet, the whole staff crowded around the head of the
table, snatching them up, holding them to the light, bending close to
decipher minute writing. Their eyes were shining with excitement, their
hands were trembling; they spoke in broken words, in bits of sentences.

“The enceinte----”

“Oh, a new bastion here at the left----”

“I thought so----”

“Three emplacements----”

“But this wall is simply a mask--it would present no difficulties----”

“This position could be flanked----”

It was the general himself who spoke the final word.

“This is the weak spot,” he pointed out, his finger upon the last sheet
of all. Then he turned to Stewart, his eyes gleaming. “Monsieur,” he
said, “I will not conceal from you that these papers are, as Fernande
guessed, of the very first importance. Will you tell us how they came
into your possession?”

And Stewart, as briefly as might be, told the story--the meeting at
Aix, the arrest at Herbesthal, the flight over the hills, the passage
of the Meuse, the attack on the village--his voice faltering at the end
despite his effort to control it.

At first, the staff had kept on with its examination of the plans, but
first one and then another laid them down and listened.

For a moment after he had finished, they sat silent, regarding him.
Then General Joffre rose slowly to his feet, and the members of his
staff rose with him.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I shall not attempt to tell you how your words
have moved me; but on behalf of France I thank you; on her behalf I
give you the highest honor which it is in her power to bestow.” His
hand went to his buttonhole and detached a tiny red ribbon. In a moment
he had affixed it to Stewart’s coat. “The Legion, monsieur!” he said,
and he stepped back and saluted.

Stewart, a mist of tears before his eyes, his throat suddenly
contracted, looked down at the decoration, gleaming on his lapel like a
spot of blood.

“It is too much,” he protested, brokenly. “I do not deserve----”

“It is the proudest order in the world, monsieur,” broke in the
general, “but it is not too much. You have done for France a greater
thing than you perhaps imagine. Some day you will know. Not soon, I
fear,” and his face hardened. “We have other work to do before we can
make use of these sheets of paper. You saw the German army?”

“Yes, sir; a part of it.”

“It is well equipped?”

“It seemed to me irresistible,” said Stewart. “I had never imagined
such swarms of men, such tremendous cannon----”

“We have heard something of those cannon,” broke in the general. “Are
they really so tremendous?”

“I know nothing about cannon,” answered Stewart; “but----” and he
described as well as he could the three monsters he had seen rolling
along the road toward Liège.

His hearers listened closely, asked a question or two----

“I thank you again,” said the general, at last. “What you tell us is
most interesting. Is there anything else that I can do for you? If
there is, I pray you to command me.”

Stewart felt himself shaken by a sudden convulsive trembling.

“If I could get some news,” he murmured, brokenly, “of--of my little
comrade.”

General Joffre shot him a quick glance. His face softened, grew tender
with comprehension.

“Fernande,” he said.

Fernande bowed.

“Everything possible shall be done, my general,” he said. “I promise
it. We shall not be long without tidings.”

“Thank you,” said Stewart. “That is all, I think.”

“And you?”

“I? Oh, what does it matter!” And then he turned, fired by a sudden
remembrance of a great white tent, of loaded ambulances. “Yes--there is
something I might do. I am a surgeon. Will France accept my services?”

“She is honored to do so,” said the general, quickly. “I will see that
it is done. Until to-morrow--I will expect you,” and he held out his
hand, while the staff came to a stiff salute.

“Until to-morrow,” repeated Stewart, and followed Fernande to the door.

As he passed out, he glanced behind him. The members of the staff
were bending above those red-lined sheets, their faces shining with
eagerness----

The officers in the outer room, catching sight of the red ribbon,
saluted as he passed. The sentry in the hall came stiffly to attention.

But Stewart’s heart was bitter. Honor! Glory! What were they worth to
him alone and desolate----

“Monsieur!” It was Fernande’s voice, low, vibrant with sympathy. “You
will pardon me for what I am about to say--but I think I understand. It
was not alone for France you did this thing--it was for that ‘little
comrade,’ as you have called her, so brave, so loyal, so indomitable
that my heart is at her feet. Is it not so?”

He came a step nearer and laid a tender hand on Stewart’s arm.

“Do not despair, I beg of you, my friend. She is not dead--it is
impossible that she should be dead! Fate could not be so cruel.
With her you shared a few glorious days of peril, of trial, and of
ecstasy--then you were whirled apart. But only for a time. Somewhere,
sometime, you will find her again, awaiting you. I know it! I feel it!”

But it was no longer Fernande that Stewart heard--it was another voice,
subtle, delicate, out of the unknown----

His bosom lifted with a deep, convulsive breath.

“You are right!” he whispered. “I, too, feel it!
Sometime--somewhere----”

And his trembling fingers sought that tress of lustrous hair, warm
above his heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Far away to the east, a sentry in the gray uniform of the German army
paced slowly back and forth before a great white house looking across
a terraced garden down upon the Meuse. Three days before, it had been
the beautiful and carefully-ordered home of a wealthy Belgian; now it
reeked with the odor of ether and iodine. In the spacious dining-room
an operating-table had been installed, and a sterilizing apparatus
simmered in one corner. Along its halls and in every room rows of white
cots were ranged--and each cot had its bandaged occupant.

On the terrace overlooking the river, two surgeons, thoroughly weary
after a hard day, sat smoking and talking in low tones. Within, a
white-clad nurse stole from cot to cot, assuring herself that all was
as well as might be.

In a tiny room on the upper floor, a single cot had been placed. As the
nurse stopped at its open door and held aloft her night-lamp, her eyes
caught the gleam of other eyes, and she stepped quickly forward.

“What is it?” she asked, softly. “Why are you not asleep? You are not
in pain?”

The patient--a mere lad he seemed of not more than seventeen--smiled
and shook his head.

“I do not know German,” he said in French.

The nurse placed her cool hand upon the patient’s brow to assure
herself that there was no access of fever.

“I speak French a little,” she said, painfully, in that language. And
then she hesitated. “Tell me, Fräulein,” she went on, after a moment,
“how you came to be wounded. We have wondered much.”

“My brother and I were trying to get through your lines to Brussels
where our mother is,” the patient answered, readily, still smiling.
“I slipped on a suit of my brother’s clothes, thinking to make better
progress. But we were too late. We were caught between two fires when
your men stormed that village.”

Despite the smile, there was a shimmer of anxiety in the eyes she
turned upon the nurse. It was a poor story; she realized that it would
not bear scrutiny, that it would break down at the first question; but,
fevered and racked with pain, she had been able to devise no better one.

The nurse, at least, accepted it unquestioningly.

“Ach, how terrible!” she commented. “And your brother--what of him?”

“When I was wounded, he carried me into a house, and then hastened away
to took for a cart or wagon in which to place me. Before he could get
back, your men had taken the village.”

“Then he is safe at least!”

“Yes, I am sure of it.”

“But he must think you dead! He will not know that you were saved! Ach,
what anguish must be his!”

“Yes, he will suffer,” agreed the wounded girl, in a low tone.

The eyes of the tender-hearted German woman were misty as she gazed
down at her patient and sought for some word of comfort.

“But think of his joy when he finds that you are not dead!” she urged.
“To-morrow you shall give me his address and I will write. He will come
for you, no doubt, as soon as he can.”

“Yes, I am sure of that also!”

There was a subtle timbre in the voice that caught the nurse’s ear, and
she looked down again into the luminous eyes.

“You do not seem to mind your misfortune,” she said. “You seem even
happy!”

The eyes which gazed up at her were softly, wonderfully brilliant. A
deeper color crept into the pale cheeks.

“I _am_ happy,” said the girl, almost in a whisper. “Very, very happy!”

The nurse paused a moment longer, strangely thrilled. Then her training
asserted itself.

“You must not excite yourself,” she cautioned. “You must go to sleep.
Good-night.”

“Good-night!” came the murmured answer. “I will try to sleep.”

But for long and long she lay staring up into the darkness, glowing
with the precious memory of a man’s strong arms about her, his ardent
lips on hers.

“He is safe,” her soul assured her. “He will seek you up and down the
world until he finds you. You shall lie again upon his breast; you
shall hear his heart beating ... sometime ... somewhere----”

And with a long sigh of contentment, she closed her eyes and slept.



_TWO NOTEWORTHY DETECTIVE STORIES_

By BURTON E. STEVENSON


THE MARATHON MYSTERY

With five scenes in color by ELIOT KEEN

6th printing. $1.50

An absorbing story of New York and Long Island to-day.

  _N. Y. Sun_: “Distinctly an interesting story--one of the sort that
  the reader will not lay down before he goes to bed.”

  _N. Y. Post_: “By comparison with the work of Anna Katherine Green ...
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  _N. Y. Tribune_: “THE HOLLADAY CASE was a capital story of crime and
  mystery. In THE MARATHON MYSTERY the author is in even firmer command
  of the trick. He is skilful in keeping his reader in suspense, and
  every element in it is cunningly adjusted to preserving the mystery
  inviolate until the end.”

  _Boston Transcript_: “The excellence of its style, Mr. Stevenson
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THE HOLLADAY CASE

With frontispiece by ELIOT KEEN

7th printing. $1.25

A modern mystery of New York and Etretat.

  _N. Y. Tribune_: “Professor Dicey recently said, ‘If you like a
  detective story take care you read a good detective story.’ This is
  a good detective story, and it is the better because the part of the
  hero is not filled by a member of the profession.... The reader will
  not want to put the book down until he has reached the last page, Most
  ingeniously constructed and well written into the bargain.”


  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS     NEW YORK



THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE

_American and English_ (1580-1912)

  Compiled by BURTON E. STEVENSON. Collects the best short poetry of
  the English language--not only the poetry everybody says is good, but
  also the verses that everybody reads. (3742 pages; India paper, 1
  vol., 8vo, complete author, title and first line indices, $7.50 net;
  carriage 40 cents extra.)

The most comprehensive and representative collection of American and
English poetry ever published, including 3,120 unabridged poems from
some 1,100 authors.

It brings together in one volume the best short poetry of the English
language from the time of Spencer, with especial attention to American
verse.

The copyright deadline has been passed, and some three hundred recent
authors are included, very few of whom appear in any other general
anthology, such as Lionel Johnson, Noyes, Housman, Mrs. Meynell, Yeats,
Dobson, Lang, Watson, Wilde, Francis Thompson, Gilder, Le Gallienne,
Van Dyke, Woodberry, Riley, etc., etc.

The poems as arranged by subject, and the classification is unusually
close and searching. Some of the most comprehensive sections are:
Children’s rhymes (300 pages); love poems (800 pages); nature poetry
(400 pages); humorous verse (500 pages); patriotic and historical poems
(600 pages); reflective and descriptive poetry (400 pages). No other
collection contains so many popular favorites and fugitive verses.


DELIGHTFUL POCKET ANTHOLOGIES

The following books are uniform, with full gilt flexible covers and
pictured cover linings. 16mo. Each, cloth, $1.50; leather $2.50.


=THE GARLAND OF CHILDHOOD=

A little book for all lovers of children. Compiled by Percy Wither.


=THE VISTA OF ENGLISH VERSE=

Compiled by Henry S. Pancoast. From Spencer to Kipling.


=LETTERS THAT LIVE=

Compiled by Laura E. Lockwood and Amy R. Kelly. Some 150 letters.


=POEMS FOR TRAVELLERS=

(About “The Continent”)

Compiled by Miss Mary R. J. DuBois.


=THE OPEN ROAD=

A little book for wayfarers. Compiled by E. V. Lucas.


=THE FRIENDLY TOWN=

A little book for the urbane, compiled by E. V. Lucas.


=THE POETIC OLD-WORLD=

Compiled by Miss L. H. Humphrey. Covers Europe, including Spain,
Belgium and the British Isles.


=THE POETIC NEW-WORLD=

Compiled by Miss Humphrey.


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=The Garden Without Walls=

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A story of high gallantry, which teaches that even modern life is an
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“The Raft” is a panorama of everyday, available romance. Just ready.
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=Florence on a Certain Night= (and Other Poems)

12mo. $1.25 net.

  “The work of a true lyric poet who ‘utters his own soul.’”--_Literary
  Digest._

  “The preeminent quality in all Mr. Dawson’s verse is the union of
  delicacy and strength. A generation which has all but forgotten the
  meaning of the phrase ‘to keep himself unspotted from the world’ has
  great need of this sort of poetry.”--_Providence Journal._


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  PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK



BOOKS BY BEULAH MARIE DIX


=MOTHER’S SON. A Novel=

The story of the redemption of a spendthrift German “toy soldier,”
exiled to America, The heroine is the author’s “Betty-Bide-at-Home”
grown up and become a successful playwright. There is considerable
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=THE FIGHTING BLADE. A Romance=

The hero, a quiet, boyish German soldier serving Cromwell, loves a
little tomboy Royalist heiress. 3rd printing. ($1.30 net.)

  _New York Tribune_: “Lovers of this kind of fiction will find here all
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  _New York Times_: “The freshness of youth and of life and of the joy
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  _Chicago Inter-Ocean_: “The best historical romance the man who writes
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=ALLISON’S LAD, and Other Martial Interludes=

Including “The Hundredth Trick,” “The Weakest Link,” “The Snare and the
Fowler,” “The Captain of the Gate,” “The Dark of the Dawn.” One-act
war plays; all the characters are men, and amateurs have acted them
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  _Boston Transcript_: “Her technical mastery is great, but her
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  Noble passion holding the balance between life and death is the
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_FOR YOUNG FOLKS_


=FRIENDS IN THE END=

A tale of conflict between young folks one summer in New Hampshire.
Illustrated. ($1.25 net.)

  _Living Age_: “Far above the average juvenile.... A vivid narrative,
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including authorship, at home. 3rd printing ($1.25 net.)

 _Churchman_: “Among the season’s books for girls it easily takes first
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A FEW RECENT PLAYS BY AMERICANS


=Beulah M. Dix’s ACROSS THE BORDER=

A play against war, showing in four scenes, two “beyond the border” of
life, the adventures of a highly likable young Lieutenant. He goes on
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  _New York Times_: “Impressive, elaborate and ambitious.... A voice
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Of the author’s “ALLISON’S LAD” and other one-act plays of various wars
($1.35 net), _The Transcript_ said, “The technical mastery of Miss Dix
is great, but her spiritual mastery is greater. For this book lives in
the memory.”


=Percival L. Wilde’s DAWN and Other One-Act Plays=

“Short, sharp and decisive” episodes of contemporary life. Notable for
force, interest and at times humor. $1.20 net.

DAWN, a tense episode in the hut of a brutal miner, with a supernatural
climax. THE NOBLE LORD, a comedy about a lady, who angled with herself
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other side--tragic. PLAYING WITH FIRE, a comedy about the devotion of
a boy and girl. THE FINGER OF GOD points the way to an ex-criminal by
means of a girl he had never seen before.


=Lily A. Long’s RADISSON: _The Voyageur_=

A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The central
figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who explored the Upper
Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseilliers, Owera the daughter of an
Indian chief, and various other Indians. The daring resource of the two
white men in the face of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera,
and above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grinding
corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable features,
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which closely follow those of the people involved. $1.00 net.


  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
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“_THE CHEERIEST, HAPPIEST BOOKS_”

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=Martha By-the-Day=

Thirteenth printing. $1.00 net.

The story of a big, kindly Irish char-woman, a marvel of physical
strength and shrewd humor, who takes under her wing a well-born but
friendless girl whom she finds alone and helpless in New York.

  “No sweeter humor has been written into a book.”--_Hartford Courant._

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  Wiggs.”--_Living Age._

  “Half an hour with ‘Martha’ puts one on better terms with the
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=Making Over Martha=

Fifth printing. $1.20 net.

This story follows “Martha” and her family to the country, where she
again finds a love affair on her hands.

  “Fresh, wholesome, entertaining.”--_Churchman._

  “‘Martha’ is not of the stuff to die.”--_Bellman._

  “‘Martha’ brings hard sense and good humor.”--_New York Sun._


=Martha and Cupid=

Tells how “Martha” came to choose “Sam Slosson” for her husband,
how she spent the fund for her wedding outfit, how she solved the
“mother-in-law” and other “problems” in her family life. Just ready.
$1.00 net.


  HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

On page 15, Pease has been changed to Please.

On page 19, pocketbook has been changed to pocket-book.

On page 47, ratthaus has been changed to rathaus.

On page 109, post-card has been changed to postcard.

On page 139, traveling-cap has been changed to traveling cap.

On page 173, farm-house has been changed to farmhouse.

On page 212, doorstep has been changed to door-step.

On page 220, river-bank has been changed to river bank.

On page 238, church-tower has been changed to church tower.

All other spelling, hyphenation and non-English dialogue and phrases
 have been retained as typeset




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